Your Biggest Fan
by BoundInSkin
Summary: High school AU - Why does Gilbert, the school's most notorious troublemaker, spend so long at hockey matches? Is it to avoid his anal retentive brother? To stain his teeth blue with slushies? Or is it more to do with the captain...?
1. Of hockey matches and denial

**This is a high school alternative universe story. I really wanted to write something involving a Prussia who was completely in denial about his feelings for cute l'il Matthew. So here's my attempt. Sorry if there's any grammar/spelling mistakes, or errors involving hockey (I know as much about the sport as Gilbert does). Please review, and I hope you enjoy it.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

Matthew's eyes were trained on the puck. He darted in front of the other team's centre forward and shot a look at Berwald, who nodded almost imperceptibly back. Then in one swift movement, Matthew knocked the puck away from the other team's defence, straight to his Swedish friend. Berwald hesitated, taking a slow step forward as Matthew sped towards the goal, lining himself up for the perfect shot.

One glance was all it took for Berwald to send the puck straight to Matthew's hockey stick. Now it was just between him and the defender. Matthew feinted to the left, and to his delight the keeper followed, leaving the right hand side of the goal free. Free for Matthew to whack the puck straight into the back of the net.

And that, Gilbert thought, leaning back into his seat in the stands, is why they made him Captain. He had shifted forwards, watching with wide eyes, as Matthew lined up the shot to score, but now he relaxed again. Most of the (admittedly tiny: the game coincided with a soccer match, and the soccer stadium was much warmer than the hockey one) crowd was watching the other team's keeper attempt to destroy the goal.

Apparently, he thought that a combination of swearwords and furious swipes with his stick would make it fall apart before him. Gilbert, however, had his eyes firmly fixed on Matthew. As (though he would never admit it) they had been for the entirety of the match.

The home team had engulfed their captain in a massive group hug, and due to the sheer size of some of the players Gilbert couldn't see Matthew's blonde head any more. But he was happy enough to remember the boy's expression after he'd scored, the triumph and pride evident on his fine-featured face, his violet eyes burning with emotion.

Gilbert smiled to himself, took another sip of his coke, and winced at the iciness of the drink against his teeth. For a person who spent so much of his time in an ice hockey stadium, Gilbert really wasn't good with the cold.

The team had finally released their crushed captain, and was now dragging him towards the changing rooms. As they skated away, Matthew glanced up at the stands and caught Gilbert's eye. He grinned, looking happier than the German boy had ever seen him, and turned back to his team-mates. Gilbert sighed, cursing the warm feeling that had bloomed inside of him when Matthew's eyes had locked onto his own, and pushed himself out of his seat.

No matter how many times he told himself that he came to these matches because he liked the tension, or the skill the players showed, or even the crappy drinks they sold, there was really no denying it. Gilbert came to these games because he liked the captain. And that meant that he was royally screwed.

As he pushed his way through the rows of seats towards the exit, Gilbert's mobile vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, ignoring the large, "No phones," sign directly above him, and pressed the device to his ear. "Yo," he said tiredly, "What's up?" There was a coughing noise that was obviously supposed to indicate disapproval (even though in Gilbert's opinion, it sounded more like a dying rabbit) and Ludwig's voice said snootily, "I really do wish you wouldn't use those vulgar Americanisms."

Gilbert rolled his eyes, almost at the door out of the stadium now, and threw his half-empty drink at a nearby trash can. It missed and hit the floor, leaking brown liquid onto the worn grey carpet. "What is it, Lud?" he called down the phone to his brother. "Where are you?" Ludwig replied.

Gilbert shoved open the door and walked out into the grey drizzle of a rainy Tuesday afternoon. "Hockey match," he muttered, yanking his hood up to cover his distinctive white hair. There was a pause, in which Gilbert found half a packet of gum in his pocket, then Ludwig said pointedly, "Again?"

Gilbert kicked moodily at a can on the floor and trudged on through the rain towards the parking lot. "Yes," he snapped at his brother, "What's it to you, anyway?" Gilbert hated that Ludwig was so uptight and judgmental. He also hated that his younger brother knew him so well and could read him like a particularly easy book.

"I was just thinking," Ludwig continued, his voice sharp and clipped, "You've been spending an awful lot of time at hockey matches. For someone who doesn't know anything about hockey."

Finally, Gilbert arrived at his car, a horrendously bashed up yellow thing with one red door (it's a long story). He rummaged in his pocket for his keys, fumbled for the lock and threw himself down onto the blissfully warm, _dry_ front seat. "Hockey's awesome," he snapped down the phone.

Ludwig didn't seem convinced. "Right," he said, "Anyway, Gil, I just wanted to know what time you'll be home." Now it was Gilbert's turn to smirk as he ran a hand through his damp white hair. "Why?" he asked snidely, "Are you having _company_?"

Gilbert could almost hear Ludwig blushing, even through the phone. He snickered to himself. It was just too easy to wind his brother up. "No!" the younger boy insisted, "Well, I mean, um, just some friends." Gilbert rolled his ruby red eyes. "Friends" translated as "Feliciano", Ludwig's hyperactive, enthusiastic, incredibly annoying buddy, who his brother had been crushing on for years. "Whatever," Gilbert said, "I'll be home in half an hour. Alright?"

Ludwig let out a long sigh that his brother was sure he must have practised beforehand. "Yes, bruder," he replied, and Gilbert hung up with a flourish. Why, he thought to himself as he pulled out of the parking space, couldn't his parents have stopped after one child?

As Gilbert waited (impatiently) in the queue to get out of the parking lot, there was a knock on his passenger door. The albino boy whipped his head around, eyes narrowed, but relaxed when he saw that it was just Matthew, hockey stick in one hand and dripping wet, smiling nervously at him. Then Gilbert became just as agitated as before, but for an entirely different reason.

He leaned over, thanking whatever god was up there that he didn't blush easily, and pushed open the passengers door.

Matthew leant down and looked inside the small car, biting his lip. Oh, Gilbert thought before he could stop himself, how cute. Then he mentally slapped himself, and reminded his brain that he didn't think things like that. That he was a perfectly normal (yet awesome) teenage boy, who most certainly did **not** think that their friend was the cutest thing since Bambi.

"Hi," Matthew was saying, "Um… I know this is a bit rude, but do you think you could give me a lift home?" Gilbert sighed to himself as he nodded resignedly. With the fact that Matthew lived on the same road as he did, and the adorable hopeful eyes that the younger boy was aiming at him, he really didn't have a choice.

Matthew smiled gratefully and climbed into the car, throwing his hockey stick and kit bag onto the back seat. Gilbert pulled out onto the road and glanced at his companion. The boy was soaking wet, his blonde hair dripping onto Gilbert's passenger seat, rain glinting off his pale forehead. He was also possibly the most beautiful thing that the albino boy had ever seen.

"So," Gilbert drawled after a few minutes of silence, "Good game. That last goal was awesome." Matthew blushed a delicate pink and smiled, embarrassed. "Thanks," he said in his quiet voice, "I think we've got a good chance of winning the Johnson cup this year." There was a pause, in which Gilbert racked his brains for any knowledge at all about the Johnson cup.

"It's the state championship prize," Matthew explained, putting his friend out of his misery. Gilbert nodded slightly too enthusiastically. "I knew that," he lied. Matthew laughed, a wonderful tinkling sound that seemed to fill Gilbert's head. And the German boy did the one thing that he never did: he blushed.

As they drove down the highway, the boys conversed with the easiness of two friends who'd known each other since before they could remember. There weren't many kids in their neighbourhood, and when they were young Gilbert and Matthew had been shoved together on many occasions, a result of their parent's desperation for their children to have friends.

Gilbert scared off most potential playmates, and Matthew refused to talk to all of the children his mother arranged playdates with. Putting them together had been a last resort, a crazy risk that both families were reluctant to take. But somehow, it had worked. They had formed an impossible, unlikely friendship. And somehow, it had lasted twelve years.

As they turned off the highway, Matthew asked Gilbert if he could put some music on, gently mocked the albino boy's CD choices, then pulled out a Killers disk. "I wasn't expecting you to like them," he told the older boy as the crashing introduction to the first track started to reverberate through the car. "I'm full of surprises," Gilbert joked, and turned onto their street. He pulled up outside Matthew's house and there was an odd, strained silence.

"Well, here we are," Gilbert gently prompted. Matthew fidgeted slightly, twisting a strand of damp hair through his fingertips. There was a bead of rain water on the end of his nose, and Gilbert was seized by a sudden desire to wipe it away. No, he told himself sternly, you'll scare him. There was another pause, during which Matthew wouldn't meet Gilbert's eyes.

"Is something up?" Gilbert asked curiously. The younger boy's mouth opened, then closed again, making him look like some kind of extremely adorable fish. "It's just," he admitted, "I was wondering…. Why do you come to all the hockey games? I mean, it's nice to have an audience, but… you, I mean, you don't really know much about hockey, so I was wondering…." He trailed off.

Gilbert sighed, closed his eyes briefly, then reached back to pass Matthew his bag and case. "Thanks," the Canadian boy said softly, and climbed out of the car. But his eyes were curious and searching. "Honestly," Gilbert admitted, "I go to see you."

Before Matthew could respond, Gilbert had yanked the door closed and roared off down the road, his cheeks burning. Why, why, he screamed at himself, had he done that? He didn't look back down the street as he stormed out of the car and into his house, but if he had he would have seen a certain Canadian boy still standing there, blushing furiously but smiling.


	2. Of early mornings and annoyance

**I am so sorry that this chapter has taken such a long time. I had half of it written on my computer but I've been so busy recently with schoolwork, exams and family issues that I didn't have chance to finish it until this week. This chapter's pretty rubbish, but it's better than nothing, right? -_Smiles nervously- _I apologise for any spelling or grammar mistakes, especially the mutilation of Gilbert's surname. Thankyou for reading, and I hope you enjoy it! Oh, and there's a bit of swearing in this chapter.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia Axis Powers.**

The first thing Gilbert saw when he walked into the living room was Ludwig with his tongue down Feliciano's throat. Which, considering the events of the day, did little for his mood. "So you've finally pulled the stick out of your ass," he snapped at his brother.

Ludwig stopped kissing Feliciano and turned to glare at the older boy. "Go away," he ordered. Gilbert, who'd never followed an order in his life, sat down directly opposite the couple and began staring very pointedly at them. Feliciano literally squirmed under his fierce gaze, while Ludwig's face got steadily redder.

"How was the _hockey_?" the younger Beildshcmidt boy asked snidely, his raised eyebrow telling Gilbert that he knew far more than he should about his brother's reasons for attending the match.

"Fine," Gilbert grumbled. Despite common belief, he wasn't stupid. He knew when he was beaten. Muttering curses under his breath, the albino boy stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

It was early, it was cold, and it was raining. Three very good reasons, Gilbert thought, to stay tucked up in his nice cosy bed. His father, though, had other ideas. "Get up!" he yelled into his eldest sons bedroom, disturbing the beautiful, peaceful silence that Gilbert was drowning in. The albino grumbled something unintelligible to himself and rolled over in an attempt to shut out the penetrating noise. It didn't work. "Get your lazy ass out of bed," his father ordered once more, the volume of his voice telling Gilbert that he was now in his son's bedroom.

"Fuck off," Gilbert muttered. Luckily, the duvet wrapped around his mouth muffled it. Suddenly he was no longer warm and comfortable. In fact, he was very cold and very shocked, staring up at his father (who had yanked the duvet off his bed) and the murderous expression on his face.

"I am sick of you skipping school!" his father warned him, "If you don't go today you're grounded for a month."

So Gilbert found himself trudging once more through the rain towards the bus stop. His faithful car had failed to start, his brother refused to give him a lift (still bitter about yesterday) and he was running about fifteen minutes late. All in all, not the best morning ever. Gilbert had just trod in a large puddle when he heard a voice from behind him.

Not so unusual, really. But the weird thing was that the voice was calling his name. Gilbert looked back over his shoulder and found himself face to face with the one boy he most definitely did not want to talk to. Matthew Williams.

Matthew was tugging on his jacket as he jogged down the street, completely oblivious to Gilbert's embarrassment. "Hey, Gil," he said, slightly breathless, when he caught up with the older boy. Gilbert tried to smile (though it came out as more of a grimace) and replied in a stilted voice, "Um, hi Matt."

Damn. He really needed to work on his nonchalant tone. "Have we missed the bus?" Matthew asked, shifting his grey backpack on his gently sloping shoulders. Gilbert studied the Canadian boy for a few moments before replying. Matthew obviously wasn't going to mention yesterday's horrifically embarrassing incident. He just couldn't work out if that was a good thing or a very bad one.

"No," he finally said.

The conversation, though slow and awkward at first, picked up pace and was soon running smoothly. When the bus they had caught slowed to a halt outside school, Matthew flashed Gilbert a smile that took his breath away.

"See you later," he said casually, and darted off into the crowds of people milling around the building. Gilbert watched him go, his face a mixture of desperation and hopeless, fruitless desire. Then he shook himself off, checked that no-one had seen, and continued indifferently with his day.

Well, that had been the plan, anyway. What actually happened was that Francis Bonnefoy (Gilbert's best friend, Matthew's cousin, and the biggest man-whore in the school/world) appeared as if from nowhere, slung an arm around the albino's shoulder, and gave him a knowing smirk. "Well, well, Gilbert," he purred, "Mind telling me why you were staring so hard at my petit cousin's ass?"

For a second Gil considered replying, "Because it's awesomely hot." Then he realised that even though Francis was a slut, he probably wouldn't be too enthusiastic about someone perving on his own cousin. "I wasn't, you idiot. Not everyone's as sex-obsessed as you," Gilbert muttered, shoving the French boy's arm away and trying to ignore the dusky blush colouring his cheeks.

"You have a crush on Matthew!" Francis cried. Several students milling around them turned their heads to stare incredulously at the two boys. Then they saw who that it as Francis Bonnefoy and Gilbert Beilschmidt making all the noise, rolled their eyes and carried on with their business. Gilbert kicked Francis hard in the shin, making the French teenager wail in ridiculously exaggerated agony.

"Stop making such a bloody racket, git," an extremely unimpressed British voice said from behind them.

Francis turned, all (imaginary) pain forgotten, and beamed at the source of the insult. Gilbert glanced back at Arthur Kirkland, too. The shorter boy adjusted his already perfect tie, glared suspiciously at the two friends, and opened his mouth as if to speak, but before any words could come out an enthusiastic voice yelled, "Iggy! Iggy, you aint gonna believe what happened to me last night!"

Arthur visibly winced at the mutilation of his precious English language. " 'Aint' is not a word, Alfred, and neither is 'gonna'!" he barked at the approaching American boy. "Yeah, whatever Igs," Alfred replied carelessly, shoving what looked suspiciously like a hamburger in his mouth. Arthur shot one last glare at Francis before walking away with Alfred.

The moment before became lost in the chatter of the crowd moving slowly towards school, Gilbert distinctly heard Arthur say, "How many times do I have to bloody tell you, my name is Arthur! Not _Iggy_!"

The German boy glanced at Francis, who was also gazing after the two blonde boys. "Face it, Frenchy," Gilbert told him, "You haven't got a chance. He's besotted with that American idiot."

Francis tore his eyes away from the retreating Briton (or rather, a certain _area _of the retreating Briton) and replied, "Of course I have a chance! What has the American" - The disdain in Francis' voice matched Arthur's – "Got that I have not, hmm?" Gilbert gave his friend a gentle shove.

"Lifetime membership to the Macdonald's kids club," the German boy teased, "Can't beat that, Frenchy."

The two friends moved away, bickering with each other as they entered the swarming crowds that blocked the school's entrance corridor. "You are mocking me, Gilbert," Francis sighed, eyes moving (as if drawn by some sort of magnetic force) to a nearby girl's ass.

"I'm not," his friend replied, "I heard him bragging about it in Maths class last week."

Francis let out a melodramatic sigh and asked despairingly, "Why would anyone, even the _rosbif_, choose Alfred F. Jones over moi? Am I losing my touch?"

Gilbert replied, "You never had a touch. Apart from the sort that lands people in prison for sexual assault." Francis muttered something about the state of the German boy's own love life (or rather, the lack of one). Gilbert opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment his eyes, carelessly roaming the crowd, landed on a familiar slender blonde figure.

The words fell away from his tongue as he watched Matthew reach into a locker, smiling at someone Gilbert couldn't see. Then a shadow loomed over the Canadian, whose grin fell away as he blinked up at the intimidating newcomer. The tall Russian boy leant down towards Matthew. Gilbert's eyes narrowed. Ivan Braginski?

Oh,_ hell _no.

**Cliff-hanger! Okay, it's a rather pathetic cliff-hanger, but I tried my best. Please review, comments really do mean so much to me**.


	3. Of embarassment and social studies

**Thankyou to everyone who has reviewed so far :D They really do make me happy. And when I'm happy, I write! To **_**Knight the Cat**_**, don't worry, the FrUk content of this story will probably mostly consist of Francis staring at Arthur's ass. Partly because UsUk is so much fun to write, and partly because I don't want you to kill me… As ever, sorry for any spelling/grammar errors, and I hope you enjoy! Oh, and there are some swearing and sexual references in this chapter.**

**Disclaimer: Unfortunately for me (but fortunately for the rest of the world) I don't own Hetalia Axis Powers.**

Gilbert strode off down the corridor, trying not to think about how much taller, broader and generally scarier Ivan Braginski was than he was. "You better be grateful for this," the albino muttered. The way things were going, it looked like some higher power had booked him a trip to the nurses office.

If it came down to a fight… Gilbert glanced at his hands, pale and scrawny with a neon green Band-Aid on the back of one of them, then at the Russian's huge meaty fists. He swallowed nervously.

Two pairs of violet eyes flickered to his face as he approached. Gilbert gave Mattie what he hoped was a reassuring smile (though it might have turned out as more of a terrified grimace) and, stepping in between the two boys, demanded, "Piss off, Ivan." The Russian boy smiled at him, instead of glaring like he'd expected, but somehow that childish curve of lips was much worse.

"I cannot do that," he replied. The words were light, but his eyes were narrowed dangerously. Gilbert faltered. Would it be really pathetic if he ran away now? Being Matthew's knight in shining armour was one thing, getting his face smashed in was another…

_No_, a stern voice in Gilbert's head said, _You've started this, now you have to finish it_.

"Why does my conscience sound so much like Ludwig?" Gilbert muttered to himself. Ivan blinked, looking a little confused. _Stop getting distracted_, the Ludwig-voice demanded. "Er- right," Gilbert continued, fixing Ivan with his iciest glare. "Whatever you were going to say to Matthew, you can say to me," he told him.

Ivan blinked, then giggled childishly. It was a high-pitched, cruel sound that sent a shiver down Gilbert's spine. "That will not work," the Russian said once he'd stopped.

Gilbert replied, much more bravely than he felt, "Yes it will. Go on."

Ivan shook his head, as if lamenting the stupidity of his opponent, and said with a sigh, "Very well, then. What position do you want me to play in next Friday's match?"

_This_, Gilbert snapped at the Ludwig-voice, _Is what happens when you finish what you've started!_

"Okay, that one is probably better directed at Matthew," he admitted reluctantly, stepping to the side so the Canadian and the Russian could speak.

How could he have forgotten that Ivan was in the damn hockey team? _Well, you never really pay much attention to the other players, do you?_ the Ludwig-voice said snidely. _Oh great_, Gilbert thought, _now even the voices in my own head are taking the piss out of me. _

_Voice_, the Ludwig-voice replied, _Singular, not plural._ "Shut up!" Gilbert hissed.

"Er, I didn't say anything," a quiet voice behind him said.

The albino winced, turned around to face Matthew (whose expression was slightly worried) and explained, "Not you. I was just… er… talkingtothevoicesinmyhead."

Matthew's worried expression intensified. "Are you feeling alright, Gil?" he asked, reaching forward to press his palm against the German boy's forehead.

"I'm fine," Gilbert said quickly, "I don't have a temperature." The Canadian pulled his hand back. He still didn't look convinced.

"Right… well, we have social studies class together now," Matthew said, followed by something muttered under his breath that sounded very much like, "So I can keep an eye on you." _Oh great_, Gilbert mentally groaned, _Now he thinks I'm insane. Way to go, Gil. _

Mr Vargas, the social studies teacher (and Ludwig's little boyfriend's grandfather) was infamous for his charm, great cooking and laziness. He was lounging behind his overflowing desk as the class wandered in, eyes half-closed. Gilbert took a seat near the back, next to Antonio (who, as far as the German boy could tell, was asleep). Matthew paused at the doorway.

"Come sit here," Gilbert called, trying to look nonchalant as he motioned to the seat next to him. With a smile Matthew stepped towards him, but a moment later he was enveloped in a hug by Ivan's sister, a well-rounded blonde girl who seemed to be crying. Gilbert watched, dismayed, as the Canadian dropped into the seat next to his female friend (what was her name? Katyusha?), patting her on the back.

Matthew glanced back and mouthed, "Sorry." Gilbert cursed his inability to stay angry at the violet-eyed boy for longer than a few seconds.

"Right," Mr Vargas eventually announced, pushing himself to his feet with a sigh. Half the class were missing (social studies was so easy to skip) but the Italian teacher didn't appear to have noticed.

He yawned, squinted at a piece of paper in his hand, and said loudly, "Er, the topic for today is global warming. Is it a government conspiracy? Or are we all fucked? Discuss." Mr Vargas grinned to himself, evidently pleased, and collapsed back onto his chair.

Gilbert leaned back in his own chair, half wondering why he'd even bothered coming to this class anyway. _Oh yeah_, he thought, his eyes drifting towards that familiar head of soft blonde hair, _That's why_. Most of the students in the room were doodling, chatting to one another or playing on their phones. The only ones who seemed to be taking the lesson seriously were Arthur Kirkland and Alfred Jones, whose blonde heads were close together as they talked.

Francis, who had plopped into the seat on the other side of Gilbert a few minutes after the class started, leaned forward towards the British boy. The French teenager looked troubled. "What do you think they're talking about?" he asked Gilbert, frowning at the pair.

"Knowing Arthur," his German friend replied with a hint of a sneer, "Global warming." Francis shook his head, evidently displeased, then announced, "Come on. We're going over there."

Gilbert tried to refuse, but Francis could be surprisingly strong when he was trying to interrupt the course of true love. He pulled their chairs over to Arthur's desk. The British boy looked furious. "So, global warming, oui?" Francis said smoothly, leaning his elbows on the table and tossing back his hair.

"You're such a girl," Gilbert muttered. "No, my friend," Francis replied, "I am _all_ man." This last comment, punctuated with a wink, was obviously directed at Arthur, who looked disgusted.

"Yeah! Global warming!" Alfred, oblivious as ever, said cheerfully, "I know what we should do! We should build a huge superhero to protect the earth!" Three pairs of eyes blinked at him. Then the table erupted.

"You are such an imbecile! That plan is ridiculous. Arthur, my rosbif, what are you doing with this cretin? Come to my house tonight and we will make sweet sweet love by the light of the moon…"

"What the bloody hell are you on about? Get away from me, you disgusting pervert. Alfred, we can't make a giant superhero, so your suggestion is invalid."

"What does invalid mean? Does it mean it's good? Yay! I'm gonna start making plans for it right now!"

"It's 'going to' you idiot, not 'gonna'! GET YOUR HANDS OFF ME YOU FILTHY FROG!"

"I was only expressing l'amour, my rosbif!"

"Stop calling me roast beef!"

Gilbert rubbed his forehead, exhausted by all the shouting and insults. "Screw this," he muttered to himself, and walked unnoticed out of the classroom. He wandered down the hall and into a bathroom, then stared at himself in the mirror for a few seconds.

_What's wrong with me today?_ He thought, _Normally I'd be pulling Frenchy's hair and taking the piss out of Arthur and generally loving the chaos. But today..._

_Perhaps you're concerned about what Matthew would think if you were creating such a disturbance, _the Ludwig-voice said snidely.

_Oh, you're back, are you?_ Gilbert snapped in response.

_You are avoiding the real issue here. You have feelings for Matthew_, Ludwig-voice replied with a sigh.

_The real issue here is that I am having a conversation with a voice that only exists inside my head! _

"Bruder?" a familiar voice said, and Gilbert turned to see Ludwig himself staring sternly at him. _Well, this should be interesting_, the older boy thought, _Ludwig and the Ludwig-voice, united at last!_ "Are you skipping class?" the blonde haired German demanded.

"You see me in the bathroom and you immediately assume I'm doing something bad!" Gilbert replied defensively.

"Well, are you doing something bad?" his younger brother asked.

"… yes," Gilbert admitted.

Ludwig sighed. "I have- I cannot deal with this at the moment," he said, leaning over the mirror to smooth back his already unnaturally smooth hair. "I- Against my better judgement, I will be leaving you alone in the house on Friday night," he told his brother.

"For fuck's sake, Luddy, I'm seventeen years old. I can look after myself for one night," Gilbert snapped in response.

"I am not worried about your health," his brother replied somewhat coldly, "I am worried about the state of the house."

"You worry too much," the albino said, "I'll just cook, and clean, and watch TV." _That is highly improbable_, the Ludwig-voice chipped in, _You will most likely get drunk, trash the house and masturbate._

"I doubt that," the real Ludwig replied, "But I don't have a choice. A contestant has dropped out of our school's maths team and the state championship is this Friday. They have asked me to step in."

"I really don't care," Gilbert replied with a grin. _A night to myself, huh? But hang on… what about_-

"Father is going on a business trip this weekend," Ludwig told him with another long suffering sigh, "He reminded you of that five times this morning." The blonde teenager straightened his tie in the mirror and left the bathroom, just as Francis entered.

"Here you are!" the French boy exclaimed, "Why didn't you say you were leaving?"

Gilbert glanced at him. There was a strange red mark on his forehead. "You weren't listening, anyway," he said, "What happened to your face?" Francis rushed over to the mirror and gently touched the discoloured skin.

"My dear rosbif punched me!" he told his friend, "Oh, no… this will bruise for sure." Francis tried to position a piece of his hair over the mark to hide it, but only succeeded in looking like he couldn't afford a hairbrush. "What did your brother say?" he asked curiously, as nosy as ever.

"Oh, just something about going out on Friday night," Gilbert replied with a shrug.

Francis whirled around to gaze at him, the patch of sore skin temporarily forgotten, "But this is wonderful!" he cried, "Your papa is away then as well, oui? You can have a party!"

_How the hell did Francis know about that? _Gilbert wondered. He tried to tell his friend that he didn't actually want a party, he'd rather just drink beer, watch porn and prank call his annoying Austrian cousin, but Francis was already in full flow. Gilbert sighed, ducking to avoid the French boy's waving hands.

"Looks like I'm having a party," he muttered to himself.

**Ah, this is such an awful chapter… But the next one will be better. Hopefully. Please, please review! **


	4. Of rules and parties

**AN: Sorry for the wait. I'd love to have some great excuse to share with you, but the truth is I've just been busy with school and acting. Anyway, here is chapter four (eventually)! As always, sorry for any errors, and I hope you enjoy. This chater does contain strong language, sexual situations and drug use. You have been warned. PLEASE REVIEW! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia Axis Powers. Not even a little bit.**

The worst part about having a brother like Ludwig, Gilbert had decided approximately 2.47 minutes ago, was the constant nauseous, guilty feeling when the rules he laid out were inevitably broken.

Well, that and being banned the bathroom for forty minutes every morning whilst he slicked his hair back with copious amounts of gel. Gilbert had tried numerous tactics to try and lure him out (telling him the house was on fire, smashing his possessions, setting off small, localised explosions) but he refused to leave the sink until every last strand of hair was pressed against his scalp.

The problem was, Ludwig was extremely uptight. His life revolved around rules and regulations, with no room for creativity or excitement.

Gilbert scowled at the piece of lined paper stuck to the fridge, hoping that his superpowers had finally manifested themselves and he would be able to burn it with his laser vision. Nothing happened.

"Oh, come on," the albino sighed, "Not even one smouldering corner?" Nothing stubbornly continued to happen.

Even though Ludwig was long gone, there was no mistaking the small, neat handwriting the instructions had been written in.

"Don't play music too loudly," Gilbert read in the most pompous voice he could muster, "Don't disturb the neighbours. Don't try to make contact with aliens. Don't touch the food processor. Don't invite that awful French boy round. Don't do a striptease on my car bonnet- no matter how much anyone pays you. Don't go into my room. Don't prank call the President – I still don't know how you got through to him last time. Don't aggravate the Swiss boy next door. Don't call me unless the emergency services are involved."

"So basically," he'd dropped the snobby imitation of Ludwig's voice, but not the despondent air, "I'm not allowed to do anything fun. Well, jokes on you, Luddy, because aggravating the Swiss boy next door would come under the category of disturbing the neighbours!"

Oh, dear. He'd finally resorted to picking holes in Ludwig's classification system for fun. The end was near.

Fortunately for Gilbert's mental state, at that moment the phone rang. He bounded towards the noise, tripped over the leg of a chair, knocked a vase down from the mantelpiece, and fell flat on his face.

Well, technically there was nothing in the rules about breaking their father's prized possessions. He picked himself up, prodded at his nose (bleeding slightly, but not broken) and dashed off towards the phone.

"This is Gilbert. Speak now or fuck off."

_That __is __no __way __to __answer __the __phone_.

Oh, shit, Ludwig was gone but he'd left his damn voice to keep an eye on things!

"Hey, Gil. Hi. Hello. Bonjour. Salve. Isn't it a pretty day?"

Gilbert frowned at the receiver.

"Franny - are you drunk?"

"The sun is high and so am I, mon ami. Hehe, I'm a poet."

"Right…"

"I'm bringing Lars to the party tonight."

"Lars? Who the fuck is Lars?"

"Oh, he's real nice."

"I don't trust your judgement. Not since you sent me on a blind date with that weird Latvian guy who spent the entire time shaking and apologising."

"He was cute!"

"He burst into tears when I dropped my fork on the floor."

"You should never underestimate cuteness."

"He was cute in the way that a dead puppy is cute. You feel sorry for it, but you don't want to touch it, and you sure as hell don't want it in your bed."

"What a delightful analogy."

"Yeah, I'm a literary genius. Now fuck off."

"The party starts at ten, oui? I told the people I invited that the party started at ten."

"Okay, whatever, Hang on- 'people'? Who's 'people'?

"Just a few friends. Me, Toni, Lovino, Feliciano, Arthur, Matthew, Heracles, Kiku Honda, Ivan Braginski, that pretty Belgian girl, Feliks and his boyfriend, the Lithuanian dude, Ivan's fit sister, Ivan's crazy sister, a few guys from the hockey team, Wang Yao and the people he hangs round with, Michelle, Lars, some boys from Drama club, Eduard, Gupta, Sadik, Matthias, Im Yong Soo, the choir girls, my cousins, Arthur's brother's babysitter, a bloke on the bus and this cute chick I picked up in a bar last Monday. Oh, and Barry. Can't forget Barry."

"…Er, none of them are interested in prank calling the President, are they?"

"Not that I know of."

"Awesome. Ten it is."

* * *

The three vital ingredients for a good party (according to Gilbert, anyway) were awesome music, a hell of a lot of sexual tension, and recreational drug use. He looked around the room, his hands on his hips, and smiled smugly to himself. This was an excellent party.

He had chosen the music himself. There was enough of a beat to dance to, as the group of people bouncing around near the speakers demonstrated, and it was loud enough to break up any number of awkward silences, but you could still maintain a conversation without your words being drowned out. If he hadn't been holding a can of beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, Gilbert would have patted himself on the back.

As for sexual tension… well, one glance at the corner of the living room was enough to confirm that criteria. Francis was pressed up against Arthur, blonde heads close together, moving his hips in time to the rhythm. As far as Gilbert could see the British boy wasn't smiling, but his cheeks were almost neon pink and his eyes were half-lidded and dark. Gilbert's smirk widened.

Now, all that was left were the drugs. The keg was enough to keep the portion of the guests who were satisfied with alcohol happy, but for those who weren't… Gilbert took a deep breath of stuffy, sweat-stained air, and caught that familiar whiff of herbal goodness.

He moved towards the garden, dropping his lager off on a side table and his cigarette on the floor on his way.

Sure enough, someone had set up camp on the patio. Gilbert moved a little closer, straining to see in the near-darkness, and realised that it was Lars, the Dutch guy Francis had brought with him.

_No __wonder __Franny __sounded __so __out __of __it __on __the __phone._

_If Ludwig and Father come home to find cannabis littered all over the garden, they will not be very happy, _Ludwig-voice informed him primly.

_Oh, shut it. It's not going to be all over the garden. It's going to be inside a bunch of teenagers._

_A bunch of underage teenagers, smoking an illegalsubstance. _

_Has no-one ever told you that the best things in life are illegal?_

_That's a ridiculous fallacy invented by anarchists to attempt to justify their morally decrepit actions._

_Wow, Voice. That really hit your buttons, didn't it?_

_Perhaps if you refrained from such exploits, you wouldn't **have** a Voice in your head._

"Alright, Lars?" Gilbert grinned lazily down at the tall boy, who was reclining against an old deckchair with someone snuggled up beside him.

"Yup." His voice, his entire demeanour in fact, was long and relaxed. He glanced at the spliff dangling from his fingers, as if considering, then held it out to Gilbert.

The albino boy took it, lifted it to his lips, and then stopped. There was something familiar about the person lying next to Lars, even in the darkness. They were slim, with pale hands, and as they shifted sleepily he caught a glimpse of blonde hair.

"Mattie?" Gilbert yelled.

If he had to describe how he was feeling right now, he'd go for 'astounded'. Actually, no. Someone pretentious, like Ludwig, would choose 'astounded'. He settled for 'shocked'. Mattie didn't do drugs… did he?

The person lifted their head- and apparently, Mattie did do drugs, because it was unmistakeably him.

"Hey, Gil," he smiled, a beautifully lazy smile, and Gilbert's hands clenched into fists.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he demanded, glaring at Lars, "He's never smoked weed before."

Lars shrugged, and suddenly Gilbert despised his sluggish apathy. "He wanted some."

Gil turned back to Mattie, who was struggling to his feet. "I feel weird," he mumbled.

"Yeah, well, you've just done a joint for the first time. Congratulations." Gilbert slung his arm around the Canadian boy's shoulders and manoeuvred him inside the house.

Mattie blinked in the bright, loud living room, cringing back against Gil's side. "It's… I don't like it in here," he murmured.

Gilbert yanked him through to the deserted kitchen, shut the door, and pushed the smaller boy into a chair. Then he ran his fingers through his hair, sighed, and sat down next to him.

_What a fucking mess._

Mattie closed his eyes. His eyelids looked thin, and delicate, laced with purple veins. _What a beautiful fucking mess._

Suddenly, Mattie was on his feet, his expression excited. Gilbert regarded him wearily.

"Apples! I love apples," Mattie gushed, lunging and grabbing one from the fruit bowl, "You know… apple sauce! Apple sauce? I'm hungry." He pouted. "Are you hungry? I'm really hungry. Let's make some pie! I love pie. I love love love pie."

_How can someone look so gorgeous and sound so bloody stupid?_

He bobbed towards a cupboard. Gilbert grabbed his arm gently, shaking his head.

"Your ceiling is so big..." He was gazing upwards now, swaying gently back and forth.

"There are wasps in my head, Gil. Wasps! Going- going buzz. Buzz buzzzzz buzzzzzzzzz."

He collapsed back onto the chair, rubbing at his forehead and chuckling to himself.

"Buzzzzzz! Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!"

"Stop it!"

He stopped halfway through a buzz and looked up innocently at Gilbert.

"What's wrong? Don't you like my buzzing?"

"No. It's annoying."

Slightly harsh, maybe, but he probably wouldn't remember any of this in the morning.

"I- I don't like it. They're flying about." Mattie's face was suddenly the picture of misery.

"Have some water." Gil filled a glass and held it out to him; he clutched at it with both hands, like a child.

_Oh God… How do I deal with this? _

"GILBERT! My love hast forsaken me!" Francis burst into the kitchen looking completely dishevelled, his hair tangled, his shirt ripped at the seam. It was becoming something of a trademark look. "

I don't-" Gilbert started to say, but was immediately cut off.

"It was going so well! He was drunk and we were kissing and it was all so amore and then-then that bastard American burst in! And I said- I said you-"

Francis pointed for effect, and Gilbert realised he was very drunk,

"I said you are not invited. And then he punched me quite hard. And he took my rosbif away!"

_Something is very wrong here. I am now officially the most responsible person in our friendship group. It's surreal._

"I need some wine…" Gilbert shoved a bottle of something red into Francis' hands and he flounced out.

"Jesus…"

"AH! I GOT STUNG BY ONE OF THE WASPS!"

Mattie was grabbing at his hair with his fingers, rocking back and forth on the chair.

"Just to clarify," Gilbert said dryly, leaning against the counter, "This is one of the wasps flying round inside your head, right?"

Mattie stopped rocking. "Yeah…" he murmured miserably.

He suddenly stood up and staggered towards the albino.

He threw his arms around his neck, and Gilbert's heart started thudding along at about 1000 beats per minute.

"Gilbert," the Canadian boy whispered, so close to Gilbert's ear he could feel his hot breath on the sensitive skin there, "I- I like… I like-" He leaned in.

_This is- this is it. He's going to kiss me. I'm going to kiss Matthew Williams. Oh, fuck!_

Matthew looked straight into Gilbert's eyes. His head moved closer. His mouth opened.

And he vomited all the way down both of their shirts.

**Please review!**


	5. Of birds and similes

**AN: Here it is, chapter five. I don't have a huge amount to say about this, apart from the ever-present apology for any spelling or grammar mistakes. I hope you enjoy it, and PLEASE REVIEW! I love knowing what you think, even if it's not positive.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia Axis Powers. Or facebook. Or pineapples.**

Gilbert's earliest memory was of bird watching with his mother. She would wake him at some impossibly early time, when the sun was nothing more than a burning line on the horizon.

Warm fingers stroking his cheek and slipping through his hair, a soft voice that dragged him from the meaningless abyss of sleep, and a pair of bright eyes in the pre-dawn darkness. He would stumble from his bed, tugging on clothes and yawning, and together they would creep like shadows from the house.

They went out across the dual carriageway, through the patch of woods and into a field beyond, a clearing the farmer had abandoned years ago. His mother would sit in the soft grass and tug him onto her lap, pressing a finger to his mouth for silence.

She timed it perfectly. Seconds later he would hear the quiet chirp of the first bird, which soon built into a chorus of high, fluting song.

By the time he was six years old Gilbert could identify each bird by sound alone; the catlike "turr" of the dove, the buzzing, nasal call of the willow tit, the repetitive trill of the chaffinch. They caressed his young ears like old friends, as comforting as his mother's strong arms wrapped around him.

Ludwig accompanied them a few times, but he was grouchy and irritable, too young to understand how magical the experience was. Besides, Gilbert preferred it when he was alone with his mother.

Even when she had to go into hospital, he would drag his father out of bed and beg him to drive there, just so that he could sit beside her as the dawn chorus began.

That was a long time ago, of course. These days, if left alone he usually didn't surface until after noon. Occasionally, however, he woke up in darkness, moments before the sun rose. He guessed it was some kind of lingering remnant of the life he'd once lived.

This morning, the day after the somewhat disastrous party, was one of those ones. He had woken up with damp cheeks, panting heavily, terrified, although he couldn't remember what he'd been dreaming about.

Francis was sprawled out on his bed, limbs everywhere, and Gilbert was very tempted to shove him off onto the floor. He resisted the urge, and instead rummaged in his wardrobe for a pair of jeans and an ancient sweatshirt.

He now sat in the tree directly opposite his bedroom window, high above the pavement. It was a familiar position; he'd spent hours crouched amongst the leaves in his childhood, especially after his mother had died.

He used to snap twigs off the branches and throw them at unsuspecting people walking below him, cackling when they hit. He wasn't a very good shot; the sticks usually bounced off their shoulders. As far as he could remember, no one had ever been rushed to hospital with twigs sticking out of their nostrils or eyes.

He was bigger now, obviously, but he still managed to find a somewhat comfortable position to sit and watch the sun crawl above the horizon. There was a lump in the pocket of his hoodie: he reached in and pulled out a battered packet of cigarettes.

Gilbert grinned.

_Put them back. Put them back right now. Actually, even better, go back into the house and throw them into the nearest dustbin or incinerator._

The Ludwig-voice sounded a little muffled. Perhaps it was suffering from Gilbert's hangover, too.

_Don't get your knickers in a twist. I'm not going to smoke them, am I? I don't even have a lighter on me_.

_No, but as I know very well you have twelve hidden in various parts of your room._

_Hidden? I wouldn't say they're hidden. There's one on my bedside table. Not exactly well concealed._

_The specifics do not matter! You need to get rid of them!_

_You really don't have any faith in me at all, do you? Wow. Not even the Voice of my subconscious believes that I have the willpower to give up smoking._

_Sometimes I doubt that you have the willpower to breathe._

_Breathing doesn't require willpower, smart-arse. And I haven't touched a cigarette in seven months. So fuck off back to your trigonometry castle or wherever it is that you hang out when you're not busy pissing me off._

_Trigonometry castle? That doesn't make sense…_

Gilbert waited for a few more seconds, but it appeared that the Voice had gone. He turned the creased packet over in his hands, remembering how much he'd coughed the first time he'd tried one and how Toni had thought that he was dying.

The rush of nicotine flooding his bloodstream, the plumes of smoke curling out of his mouth as though he were a dragon.

He shoved them back into his pocket, and shimmied down the tree.

_Another day, another temptation._

* * *

Gilbert was lying on the sofa, finishing the remains of a can of beer he'd found on the floor and watching Super Friends, when he heard the scream. It was followed by a manlier shout, which Gilbert recognised from somewhere.

He couldn't quite recall where, though. His mind felt a little fuzzy, probably a combination of sleep deprivation and early-morning alcohol.

Suddenly, Ludwig appeared in front of him, and Gilbert remembered exactly where he'd heard that sound before. At his fifteenth birthday party, when he'd used his brand-new water pistol to squirt jelly into his brother's eyes.

"There is someone in my bed," Ludwig growled, voice low and dangerously controlled.

"Lucky boy."

Gilbert tried to give him a cheeky wink, but his eyelid got stuck halfway down and he just ended up twitching. Well, Ludwig would get the message.

The 'Ooh, I'm implying that sex has happened' message, not the 'I need to see a doctor about these facial tremors' message. They were surprisingly easy to confuse…

"Holen sie ihn raus. Jetzt!"

_Oh, shit, the German's coming out. That's never a good sign._

Gilbert held up his hands in the international 'easy, tiger' gesture, and reluctantly dragged himself off the sofa.

"Okay, okay," he mumbled, "I'll sort it."

Gilbert collided with the problem, who was blonde and pale, at the top of the stairs.

"You!" he announced, "Were you in my brother's bed?"

The person lifted their head. It was Matthew. There were dark circles around his eyes, and he looked a little greyer than normal.

"Yeah," he said, his voice scratchy, "I think so. I don't know how I got there… I just woke up and he was looming over me."

"Bad choice," Gilbert told him, "He snores like a pig. Actually, I don't know if pigs snore. I don't have a lot of contact with pigs. I must do some research…"

Mattie's nose wrinkled. "Are you drunk?"

Gilbert frowned at him. "No. Not at all. Not even a little bit. Well, maybe a little bit. Or more than a little bit. Actually, quite a lot. So yes. Yes I am."

Mattie shook his head, and ran a hand through his hair. "Okay," he sighed, "Well, I'm going to go before I have another run in with your brother. I- I guess I'll see you around."

Gilbert watched him hurry down the stairs, and out of the front door. He had the strangest feeling that he'd just made a really awful mistake, one that he was going to beat himself up about later, and regret for a long time.

"Bruder, what happened last night?"

Ludwig had appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, holding a smashed bottle in one hand and a pair of lacy panties in the other.

He looked intensely confused.

* * *

"Frannie, I need your help."

_Desperate times call for desperate measures._ Gilbert snickered to himself at the pun. Call, geddit? Yeah...

"I'm busy. Which of my services do you require?"

"You do realise that you sound like a prostitute when you say that, don't you? Or was that the effect you were going for?"

"To restrict my talents to paying customers would strip the poor and needy of a necessity. I am not that cruel, mon cher."

"Whatever, Frenchy. I wasn't going to call, but..."

Gilbert shifted uncomfortably. He wasn't good at asking for help. He never had been. But Francis had charmed his way into more girls (and boys) hearts (and pants) than anyone else he knew.

"Don't keep me waiting."

"I need help with" -urgh- "something romantic."

There was a pause, then a rueful chuckle.

"Let me guess: mon petit cousin?"

_Damn that french bastard._

"Stop being so fucking smug. He's ignoring me."

"Matheiu? He wouldn't do that. He's too sweet."

"When I call him, it goes onto voicemail. When I log onto Facebook, he immediately becomes unavailable. And yesterday, when I finally managed to track him down in the library, he said he couldn't talk to me because he had to go and wash his hamster."

"...Maybe that was an innuendo?"

"How would that make it any better? Besides, I doubt he even knows what an innuendo is."

"Perhaps he really did have a dirty, ah, hamster."

"No! It's one of those excuses that people give when they don't want to see you, like- like 'I have to go and see a man about a dog' or 'I need to go and buy some bread' or 'I have a pineapple shoved up my arse'."

"Er, Gilbert? That's not a phrase. People don't say that."

"They don't? Well, they will."

"Oh, mon ami. You are so hopeless."

"Could you for once in your life stop being a patronising asshole and give me some advice!"

"Relax. I have the perfect plan..."

* * *

"_Your eyes are blue like water  
Well, water's not actually blue it just reflects off the sky  
(We learnt about that in science class at primary school)  
Your hair is yellow like a yellow thing  
A yellow bird or a yellow lemon  
Or diarrhoea when you eat too much fruit  
Your smile is rare  
Like the Visayan Warty Pig  
And you're quite short." _

Matthew finished reading and glanced helplessly at Arthur, who was wearing an expression of horrified disbelief.

"What was that?" the British boy demanded. Matthew looked back at the tatty piece of lined paper with the words scrawled on it.

"I think it's a poem," he said, "It was in my locker."

Arthur looked skeptical.

"I don't know what that is," he said eventually, "But it is **not** a poem."

* * *

Gilbert, watching them from behind a potted plant, swore to himself. He yanked his phone out of his pocket, hit speed dial and pressed it to his ear.

"Franny!" he hissed, "Your super-duper awesome special fun plan was SHIT."

"What? Didn't he like it? I don't understand. Love poems have been part of courtship rituals for centuries!"

"You've failed me, you French bastard."

"Wait- did your poem rhyme?"

"..."

"It didn't, did it."

"Poems don't have to rhyme!"

Gilbert snapped the phone shut, ending the call.

_Time for plan B._

**Next chapter should be up relatively soon. Please review! All comments are appreciated. **


	6. Of libraries and interference

**This chapter is dedicated to p0ck3tf0x, for their lovely review, and to Rebecca, as always. Thanks go to everyone who has read so far, and to everyone who carries on. I hope you enjoy it! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Hetalia characters.**

"Arthur? Can I talk to you about something?"

The British boy looked up from his copy of The Canterbury tales and saw a vague blue shape hovering a few feet away from him. He blinked, thoughts of Chaucer rushing out of his mind, and the spectre solidified into Matthew, wearing a blue sweatshirt and looking anxious.

"Sit down," Arthur sighed, and the Canadian boy slipped into the seat opposite him.

"No one usually comes here," Arthur told him, rubbing wearily at his forehead. That was, in fact, the reason he had chosen this spot at the very back of the library. His table was shielded by tall bookcases, tucked away in the permanently empty Geology section. It was the perfect spot to read some classic English literature and try to forget about the shit heap that his life was rapidly becoming.

"I asked the librarian if you were in here," Matthew admitted, "He pointed me in the right direction."

Arthur made a murmuring noise of assent, gaze already drifting back to his page.

"I need some advice," Matthew told him quietly. His fingers knotted together, twisting nervously on the tabletop. Arthur watched with tired, knowing eyes.

"I assume it's about the Beillschmidt boy."

Matthew glanced around, as if checking that no one could hear. When he was satisfied that the only creatures within a seven metre radius were the bookworms he spoke again, in a voice that was barely more than a whisper.

"How-" he swallowed, "How did you know?"

"Gilbert Beillschmidt is the only student in our year who has failed his English language exam three times," Arthur told him calmly, "No one else could have produced a poem of such… quality."

Matthew gave a little moan and buried his head in his hands. Arthur watched him detachedly. Most people didn't realise that being overdramatic was a family trait, and that Alfred's quiet brother could be just as histrionic as the American boy.

"Besides," Arthur continued after a few moments, "Francis told me."

Matthew looked up sharply, eyes glinting. "_Francis_ knows? Oh, this is terrible…"

"If it involves hormones, Francis knows about it."

"But-but Francis is my cousin. He could tell my Mom!"

"She knows you're gay, doesn't she?"

Matthew mumbled something unintelligible. Arthur rolled his eyes, shaking his head to himself. Yet another mountain to conquer.

"Well, don't worry about that. Francis won't say anything to your mother."

Matthew looked unconvinced.

"You want to know how my brothers found out about _my_ sexuality? Francis appeared at my door one night, completely smashed, and I let him sleep in my bed. The next morning he woke up before me and wandered into the kitchen, totally naked, raving about what a pretty arse I have. It couldn't be any worse than that."

The Canadian boy visibly winced.

"That doesn't make me feel any better! It only makes it more likely that he'll drink too much and tell my family, too!"

Arthur waved his hand dismissively. "That's not the main problem here. Besides, if you're so concerned about it you could just tell them yourself. They know about Alfred, so it's clearly not considered a huge issue."

Matthew's cheeks were tinged pink, he was chewing on his bottom lip, and just for a moment Arthur understood what Gilbert saw in him.

"I thought you wanted to talk about Beillschmidt, anyway?" The British boy gently steered the conversation back towards its original purpose.

Matthew shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"I think he likes me."

Arthur simply stared at him, completely exasperated.

"Of course he likes you. Let's see, he's written you awful poetry, told you that he only goes to hockey matches to watch you, and follows you about like a pale shadow. Those are all clear symptoms, Matthew."

"How did you know about the hockey thing?"

Arthur shrugged.

"Not important. The question is: do you like him?"

Violet eyes traced patterns in the tabletop.

"Yes," he whispered eventually, "I've liked him for ages. But I bet he thinks I'm a complete retard. I fell asleep in his brother's bed, and I've been too embarrassed to speak to him since."

"You're overreacting. Judging by his recent actions, I can say with reasonable confidence that he still wants to be with you."

"I threw up on him_."_

"Some people are into that kind of thing. I believe it's called Emetophilia."

"I- I don't even want to consider that."

There was a moment of silence. Matthew, Arthur noted, was looking a little dishevelled. His hair was uncombed, and his sweatshirt was rumpled from his nervous tugging on the hem.

"What should I do?" the Canadian boy asked plaintively.

Arthur raised a substantial eyebrow at him.

"Why the bloody hell do you think I would know? I'm not exactly an expert in the field of romance. I'm trying to choose between a person who still doesn't truly believe that Europe exists, and the slimiest frog that ever slithered through these corridors."

"We're fucked, aren't we."

It wasn't a question.

* * *

Antonio was surprisingly difficult to find. Gilbert checked the canteen, the spot of scraggly grass behind the bike sheds, the tennis courts, the car park and even the roof of the Mathematics department building. There was no trace of the hazy green eyes and chocolate coloured curls he knew so well.

He'd almost given up hope when he spotted a familiar figure walking across the courtyard towards the school office. "Hey!" Gilbert called, dropping down from his perch on a windowsill to run after the boy, "Wait up!"

The figure turned, eyes narrowed into slits. "What the hell do you want?" he demanded.

Gilbert caught up with him, panting a little, and offered him a slightly crooked grin.

"Where's Toni?" he asked. Lovino stared at him as if he were a piece of dog shit he'd just wiped off his shiny Italian brogues.

"Why the fuck would I know?" He turned to walk away, but Gilbert grabbed his shoulder.

"Stop being such a prissy bitch," the Prussian replied, "Where is he?"

Lovino wriggled out of his grip, straightening his jacket. "Like I said," he hissed, "I wouldn't know."

"But you're going out with him!" Gilbert whined.

Lovino shot him a look of utter distaste.

"No," he corrected, "I'm not." He strode off, leaving Gilbert utterly confused.

* * *

On the third ring, he picked up.

"Si?" A sad, familiar voice said quietly.

"Toni! Where are you? I've been looking everywhere, you elusive bastard. I just saw Lovino – what's going on there? He was even worse than normal."

"Oh, amigo, es horrible! Mi pequeño tesoro me odia!"

Gilbert blinked. Antonio never spoke in Spanish – unless something was very wrong.

"Calm down, man. What happened?"

"Yo fui tan cruel..."

"You know I don't take Spanish, Toni. I don't have a fucking clue what you're saying."

"It's all gone wrong, amigo."

With that, he hung up.

Plan B was clearly going to have to be postponed.

* * *

The school car park was, without fail, always full. Sometimes Gilbert wondered if the people who owned those vehicles ever actually went home, or if they stayed in school permanently to avoid losing their precious places. Anyway, unless he was staying to watch a hockey match (in which case he bullied some younger kid into standing in one of the parking spots until he got there in the morning) he generally parked in a deserted alleyway a few minutes walk from school.

It wasn't exactly the safest place to leave his car, but (as Awesome as it was) he doubted anyone would want to steal the Gilmobile. Most people seemed to value things like working brakes, and intact gear sticks, and continuity in paintwork.

When he got close enough to see a blond figure leaning against the wall beside his car, Gilbert's face split into a wide grin.

_Birdie! He's finally stopped ignoring me!_

He started walking a little faster, but when he was about twenty metres away stumbled to a halt.

_Fuck. That's not Matthew._

The boy was a little too short, his hair the wrong shade of blonde, his skin a bit too pale.

_Wait a second- that's **Arthur**. Well, fuck me in the nostril and call me Susan._

_That is not a phrase, _the Ludwig-voice chipped in.

_You're starting to sound like Francis. _

_Why couldn't you have just come up with a nice, socially acceptable method of voicing your disbelief? _

Arthur turned to watch Gilbert approached. As he got closer, the Prussian was surprised to see a cigarette hanging from his fingers.

_Never thought he was the type. _

Arthur took a drag, then breathed out a few smoke rings. Gilbert watched him somewhat warily. They weren't exactly friends, after all.

The British boy pushed himself off the wall and looked Gilbert in the eye. The Prussian could smell the thick, slightly sweet smoke radiating from him. It made his fingers twitch and his mouth dry.

"You want to go out with Matthew."

Gilbert hid his surprise with a well-timed shrug.

"Yeah. What's it got to do with you?"

Arthur twisted the cigarette between his fingers.

"I can help you with that."

_Why would he want to help me? Is this some elaborate scheme of Frenchy's?_

"Why?"

Arthur sighed wearily.

"Because Matthew is my friend, you idiot."

Gilbert scratched at his neck, still not totally convinced.

"Everyone says that you should just be yourself," Arthur continued in a low voice, "Well, that's bullshit. Don't be who you want to be. Be who he wants you to be."

Gilbert blinked at him. This was ever so slightly surreal. Arthur, the head of the student council, Francis' fucking bunny rabbit, was smoking like he'd been doing it for years and giving him advice on how to snare Matthew.

_Weird, man. _

"Stop sending him shitty poetry. Let him know how you feel. Go to his hockey matches."

Arthur dropped the stub of the cigarette and ground it under his heel. His eyes locked into Gilbert's, green against red.

"And whatever you do, don't smoke."

Arthur turned and walked away, hands shoved into his pockets. After a few minutes, Gilbert opened his car door and got in.

He would kill for a cigarette.

**Sort of a filler chapter, I know, but it's important for plot progression! Review and let me know what you think. Any advice on content of future chapters will be read and considered.**


	7. Of decisions and misunderstandings

**AN: Hello again! Here's chapter seven, which is dedicated to my good friend Cassie for helping me unwravel the convoluted ball of ideas I had about this story into something that actually resembles a coherent plot. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hetalia Axis Powers characters.**

Gilbert yanked open the fridge, rummaged around until his fingers tightened on the milk, and took a hefty swig straight from the bottle. It was semi-skimmed, not as rich as the full fat stuff that he preferred, but still cold and silky as it slid down his throat.

Something had to be done. This whole Mattie thing (craze, obsession, fad, take your pick) was getting out of control.

Gentle flirting as he gave the kid a lift home was one thing, but waking up at 3am with his name on his lips? Having relationship advice thrust at him by Arthur fucking Kirkland? Feeling utterly bewildered, and hopeful, and anxious, every time the Canadian so much as looked at him?

It had never happened before. It wasn't _supposed_ to happen- he was supposed to be the infamous Gilbert Beillschmidt, striding through life like a bad ass, terrifying, weirdly fascinating tornado, and leaving a trail of broken hearts and masturbation fantasies in his wake.

He could still remember the first time he saw Matthew. He was tiny, a pale scrap of a child shrinking back against his mother as if the mere sight of Gilbert was enough to make him wet himself.

The albino boy didn't think much of him at first. They'd been told to 'play nicely', and cheerfully abandoned by their respective parents. Gilbert remembered standing with his hands on his hips, surveying the other five-year-old warily.

He took him off towards the bottom of his garden, where the undergrowth was overgrown and wild. There was an apple tree there, a wizened, haggard but still fairly solid structure. Gilbert glanced at Matthew and grinned to himself.

Ten minutes later, the albino kid was standing with his mouth wide open in shock as the Canadian boy shimmied easily up the trunk and perched himself on one of the higher branches. It was a test that Gilbert set all potential playmates, and so far not one of them had managed it.

Some, like his cousin, outright refused to even try. Others got halfway up then chickened out, and started crying for their parents to come and rescue them.

One, a cheerful Italian boy who had just moved in a few streets away, clambered happily for about five foot, then made the mistake of looking back over his shoulder. He had panicked and let go, toppling to the ground while Gilbert snickered.

But this boy, the little blonde with the wide eyes and skin that looked as though it didn't know the meaning of dirt, had scaled it easily. Effortlessly, even. Gilbert knew at that moment that it was the start of a brilliant friendship.

For the next ten years, they ambled along happily. Gilbert was the inventor of outlandish schemes, insane games and ridiculous stories, while Matthew stood behind him with mud on his knees from being pushed into a puddle and an enormous smile on his face.

When high school arrived they drifted apart. Gilbert became one-third of the newly formed bad touch trio, setting fire to the science labs in his first ever chemistry lesson and quickly establishing his role as the most creative troublemaker the school had ever seen.

He earned countless detentions, got into fights with the kids who thought they were hard and made his parents wish he was more like his dutiful younger brother.

Matthew, meanwhile, drifted through his first year without making any significant impact. There were new friends; sweet Kat, shy Kiku and the slightly formidable Arthur. When winter came he discovered hockey, and it wasn't long before he was an integral part of the team.

They still saw each other, occasionally. Gilbert would sometimes turn up at his house, completely unannounced, and drag him off to hang out at the park with Francis and Antonio, or attempt to cheat on the games at the arcade.

But the gaps between their meetings became longer and longer, and without any real effort their friendship slowly disintegrated.

And then, just after Matthew's twelfth birthday, Gilbert's mother died. She'd been ill for a long time, leukaemia, and though she underwent countless treatments the end seemed inevitable.

What Matthew wasn't expecting was for Gilbert to arrive on his doorstep the very next evening, eyes dry but red.

They both slept in Matthew's bed that night, Gilbert's fingernails digging hard enough into his back to leave tiny, half-moon shaped scars.

Looking back, Matthew thinks it was then that he realised he didn't want to imagine his life without Gilbert.

Time passed, as time has a tendency to do, and although the albino never really recovered from his mother's death, he gradually regained his hissing laugh and triumphant smile.

Gilbert shoved the milk back into the fridge. He couldn't remember the exact moment when he realised he had the hots for Mattie. It had happened gradually, sneaking up on him.

_Doesn't really matter when, does it? It's happening now. That's what's important._

The big question- well, not The Big Question, not "Is there a God?" or "What happens after death?" or "Do you want to go for a drink sometime?", but still a pretty important one- was what to do about the feelings churning around in his gut.

There seemed to be a logical chain of events forming.

_I am friends with Mattie I like Mattie I want to do dirty, perverted things with Mattie I ask Mattie out_

_But if something goes wrong… I mean, hypothetically, obviously, because who would turn down the Awesome Me? But if…_

The greatest friendship of his life would be destroyed, pretty much irrevocably. It was a big risk.

Gilbert thought for a moment, then grinned wolfishly to himself.

He'd always been attracted to danger.

* * *

It was generally agreed that Matthew was a good captain. Hell, Matthew was a great captain. He was talented, enthusiastic about the sport, and able to command authority without being cocky.

Strange, really, because in normal circumstances the Canadian boy was about as authoritative as a kitten. But once inside the hockey stadium something about him changed, some subtle shift in his demeanour that made his words ring with power.

It helped, too, that he was cheerful and understanding and very difficult to dislike. He'd been captain for a year now, and his teammates had developed an enormous fondness for their blonde haired leader.

Which was why, when Matthew shuffled into the locker room one day with his head bowed and an air of misery hanging thickly around him, the entire team was concerned.

Berwald, feeling oddly awkward, glanced helplessly at Matthias. The Danish boy shrugged, and elbowed Sadiq in the side. "What?" the Turkish boy, halfway through getting dressed, hissed.

"Something's up with Mattie." Sadiq rubbed the back of his head, and tugged his pants up.

"Hey, Mattie!" The Canadian whirled around, eyes large and sad. "What's up?"

Matthew shook his head, not meeting his teammates' eyes. "Nothing." He'd never been a particularly good liar. Judging from the sceptical looks on the guys' faces, he hadn't convinced even one of them.

"Come on, man," Matthias chipped in, "You can tell us."

Their captain sighed.

"It's okay, guys. I'm just… kind of stressed, at the moment. Don't worry about it." He looked around, doing a quick mental headcount. "Where's Ivan?"

Matthias' face darkened. His dislike for the Russian boy was infamous, and had more than once resulted in an on-rink brawl.

"He's outside," he informed Matthew, "Drinking. Lazy bastard…"

Mattie's expression became anxious. "If he gets caught, we could be disqualified," he said worriedly.

Sadiq patted him on the shoulder. "Nah, there's no one else out there."

Matthew took a breath, then managed a smile for his team-mates.

"Come on," he said, in a stronger voice, "Let's go kick some ass."

* * *

Gilbert picked idly at a bit of loose plastic hanging off his seat. The minutes before the game started were always so dull. He could see a few familiar faces in the stadium, but none who he felt like talking to at the moment. That Norwegian was sitting a few rows in front of him, eyes closed as if he were praying, or just deep in thought.

_Weirdo._

_Hypocrite. _

_Oh, great. You're back, are you?_

As irritating as the Ludwig-voice was, something told Gilbert that he'd miss it if it disappeared one day.

_You shouldn't make assumptions about people you don't know._

_Fuck off, you self-righteous shit-head._

_I don't have a head, unless you count your own. _

Gilbert's attention shifted as the team came out onto the rink. Matthew was brandishing his stick high in the air, moving gracefully across the ice. Gilbert smiled to himself.

* * *

The next morning, Matthew was awoken by a shrill buzzing. He groaned into his pillow and tried to ignore it, but the sound didn't cease. A few seconds later, he realised that it was the doorbell.

_Who would ring the doorbell at this time in the morning? _

It was, according to his trusty alarm clock (which wasn't due to go off for another hour) six am. The Canadian boy rubbed a hand over his eyes and forced himself out of bed. The stairs were dark and treacherous, but he managed to make his way down without falling over.

"Okay, okay, I'm coming," he mumbled as the unexpected visitor started banging on the door. He turned the knob and wrenched it open –

And came face to face with one Gilbert Beillschmidt.

Matthew flushed, realising that he was only dressed in the loose pyjama pants and scruffy T-shirt he wore to bed. Gilbert was grinning widely, impossibly chirpy for so early in the morning.

"Hey!" he said cheerfully.

"Hey," Matthew replied, embarrassed and more than a little confused, "What are you doing here?"

Gilbert's smile widened. "We're going bird-watching," he told the Canadian boy, "Get your coat."

* * *

Half an hour later two boys sat in an empty field, glancing at each other. Gilbert's smirk had softened into a gentle smile that Matthew didn't see very often.

_I knew this was an awesome idea._

"So," he said eventually, heart pounding at about a hundred beats per minute.

Matthew, now wide awake and warm in a thick duffle coat, felt heat rush to his cheeks.

"Ilikeyou."

The Canadian boy blinked. "Er, what did you say?"

_Of course. I couldn't just say it normally, could I? Fate hates me too much to let that happen. Fucking typical._

"I- I like you. A lot," Gilbert repeated.

Matthew's cheeks turned the neon pink of the early morning sky.

"Good," he replied, after a few minutes.

Smiling, he turned towards the albino, and pressed their mouths together.

(And there were no fireworks, and no one cheered, and small furry animals didn't suddenly start dancing around them. But the earth **moved**.)

* * *

"Arthur? Arthur, I know you're there. I have important news, mon cher!"

Arthur glanced warily at his phone. Caller ID was such a fantastic invention. Whenever Francis called, now, he just let it go onto the answering machine. But he could only ignore the frog's babbling for so long…

He leant over, snatched up the phone, and pressed it to his ear.

"What is it?"

"Heh, I knew you'd answer eventually." Francis' voice was far too smug for his liking.

"Get to the point, git."

"Easy, lapin. I just received a text from my good friend Gilbert."

"…And? What did it say?"

"One word. **Victory**."

Arthur exhaled, flopping back into his chair.

"So that's it? They've finally got together?"

"It appears so."

Arthur ran a hand through his hair.

"About time, too."

There was a pause, then Francis said in a voice that sounded almost nervous,

"We should go out for a drink. To celebrate our matchmaking skills."

"It's half past ten in the morning. Besides, we didn't get them together, did we?"

"Well, we meant to. Anyway. We could have coffee."

"I don't drink coffee."

"Tea, then."

A silence followed. Francis counted the seconds: _un, deux, trios, quatre, cinq_.

"Alright."

_Success._

**This is not the end! Not even slightly... If you've enjoyed it so far, please review. If you've hated it so far, please review. If you have no strong feelings towards it, well, I think you can guess what I want you to do. ****If you have any ideas that you think would benefit the story, let me know!**


	8. Of preconceptions and peas

**AN: Dedications seem to be becoming a bit of a tradition. Well, this chapter goes out to my beautiful sister, who turned 18 yesterday. Before I start I want to say an enormous thankyou to everyone who has reviewed this story, I do read and appreciate every single one (even if I don't always reply). I hope you enjoy this chapter.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hetalia Axis Powers characters. **

Gilbert was starting to suspect that he'd underestimated Arthur Kirkland. It wasn't something he was keen to admit to (the Crowning King of Awesome, making a less-than-accurate character judgement? Never!) but the thought refused to go away.

It niggled at his brain, digging tiny claws into his consciousness and resurfacing at alarmingly frequent intervals.

The smoking incident had been his first clue, although he hadn't recognised it at the time. Although he'd been a bit surprised, his opinion of the British boy (bossy, stuck-up, pretentious and floundering) hadn't really changed that day.

But as Arthur slipped into their Maths class with his hair even messier than usual, his lips swollen and several red marks littering his pale throat, Gilbert watched him somewhat warily.

It was the second time this week he'd appeared late, looking thoroughly dishevelled, and the albino had a sneaking suspicion that Francis had something to do with it.

So, Arthur clearly wasn't as prudish as he'd originally assumed. There was something else, though- Gilbert was sure that he liked Alfred. He'd have been willing to bet money on it, if he wasn't a permanently cash free zone.

_I'd bet someone else's money on it. Ludwig's. Or maybe Toni's… it's not like he'd notice. If he asked me what I was doing, I could distract him by pointing out a squirrel. _

_A squirrel? That seems like a completely irrational, not to mention random, potential distraction. What if you were indoors? Loudly proclaiming that there was a squirrel running down a school corridor would just draw attention to you, and highlight your petty theft. _

_Piss off. You're interrupting my internal monologue about Arthur. Anyway, the squirrel thing was just an example. It was supposed to be a humorous remark or 'joke' about how gullible and easily diverted Toni is. _

_It wasn't very funny. _

_Number of fucks given: 0._

Anyhow. Gilbert had been pretty damn convinced that Arthur wanted to go out with Alfred, or at least do nasty, dirty things to him.

Why else would he put up with all the stupid bullshit that came out of Alfred's mouth on a terrifyingly regular basis? So the fact that he was gallivanting around with a certain Frenchman seemed downright odd.

Well, it did at first. Then Gilbert noticed the way Arthur would swan into the classroom, looking tousled in a way that only roving hands and mouths could produce, sit down calmly, and glance at Alfred from under his eyelashes.

It took much more dedicated observation to notice the tiny smirks that would curve Arthur's lips when the American stared at him in a way that was half astonished and half horrified.

Yep, Arthur was definitely more intelligent than Gilbert had imagined. And it wasn't just cleverness- it was downright deviance. The more sore love-bites on Arthur's neck, the more fascinated Alfred's blatant staring became.

The American's crush on his British friend had been pretty obvious anyway. But it had taken an extra little push, the heat of jealousy, that hint of pure naughtiness, to drive him over the edge.

Alfred was captivated.

Gilbert leant back in his chair as the collar of Arthur's shirt slipped a little, revealing yet more kiss-swollen skin and - were those teeth marks? – and shook his head to himself.

He couldn't deny that he was impressed.

* * *

Unfortunately, the rapid increase in the amount of attention Alfred was paying Arthur had another effect. Sure, Alfred was oddly entranced by this change in the British boy's demeanour. But (and if Gilbert had been a little more perceptive, he could have figured this out) he was also **mad**.

So Arthur had a wild side? Fantastic. So Arthur was expressing that wild side with _someone else_? Not so fantastic.

Alfred was currently existing in a state of permanent, awful arousal/anger, and it wasn't doing wonders for his emotional interactions.

But now we must return to our intrepid protagonist (well, the closest thing we have to one), who was pitifully unaware of this.

He should have known, really, but he had something else on his mind. Something thin, and blonde, and Matthew-shaped.

* * *

"What do you think you're doing with my brother?"

_Woah there, tiger. Fucking hell… since when has Alfred Jones been scary? Uh, not that I'm scared. I'm just – overreacting on purpose. To mock him. Yeah…_

Gilbert swallowed thickly and adopted his best self-assured (read: arrogant) smirk, wishing that he were a few centimetres taller so that he didn't have to look up into the pair of blue eyes that were currently glaring at him.

"So you heard, huh? Relax, big boy. I'm not going to hurt him."

_There. That wasn't inflammatory, right?_

_I'm just glad that I don't share the nerve endings in your face._

_Thanks, Ludwig-voice. You always fill me with confidence. _

_If you were filled with any more confidence, you would explode. _

"You better not." Alfred's voice was low and dangerous, a world away from the American's usually bright, cheerful demeanour.

It was fucking terrifying. Al was supposed to be the happy, bouncy, blustering idiot who followed Arthur around like a lovesick puppy. He wasn't supposed to make Gilbert regret all those afternoons he didn't spend in the gym, and glance warily at Alfred's captain-of-the-football-team muscles.

_The world's gone insane today. Well, more insane than usual. How do I get myself into these damn situations?_

"Because if you do," the American said, stepping closer so that Gilbert was forced to back up against the wall to avoid being on the pointy end of the accusatory finger Alfred was currently jabbing at his chest, "I will kill you."

_Holy shit. _

Gilbert mentally thanked his ancestors for the strength of their bladder muscles. A weaker man would have uncomfortably warm pants by now.

_I just need to say something that will defuse it so that I can slip away unnoticed. Like a ninja._

"Back the fuck up, man. Ever heard of personal space?"

Well, he'd always been a little too antagonistic for his own good.

Alfred bent so that their noses were almost touching, and growled in a voice that wouldn't have seemed out of place coming from Ivan's mouth,

"I don't like you, Beillschmidt. I don't like your stupid attitude, and I don't like your stupid clothes, and I don't like your stupid friends."

There was a long, long pause. Then Alfred suddenly straightened up, fixing his glasses with one hand, and surveyed Gilbert coolly.

"For some reason, though, Mattie does like you. But the second that that changes… I'll be there. And I won't just be using words, either."

He walked away, and Gilbert leant against the wall. He found that he was breathing heavily.

_Note to self: If Mattie is anything less than super-happy all the time, consider an evacuation back to Germany._

* * *

Meanwhile, Matthew was having problems of his own. He hadn't realised that dating Gilbert Beillschmidt (and damn it, he still felt a little flutter of excitement at the thought of his name) would bring such notoriety. He wasn't regretting the decision, but it took a little getting used to.

For all his life, Mattie had been overlooked, overshadowed and ignored. He drifted through school mostly unnoticed, spending his free time with like-minded friends or playing hockey, which even he had to admit wasn't the most prominent school sport. And, for the most part, he liked it that way.

He opened his locker, trying to ignore the group of girls a few feet away who were staring at him and whispering to each other.

Perhaps it was because he never paid that much attention to inter-school politics, but he hadn't realised quite how well known Gil was. It seemed like everyone had an opinion on him. And suddenly, Matthew was part of the rumour mill.

Already today he had heard people muttering that he was a new student who had grown up in the Alaskan wilderness, killing grizzly bears for food. Another story claimed that he was Madonna's illegitimate lovechild, who had been sent away after a scandal involving a tuna fish.

And as he walked out of his Chemistry classroom, someone had asked if it was true that he was Gilbert's biological twin who ate raw human livers for sustenance.

_Where do they get these ideas? _

At least it was the end of the day, now, so he could head home and leave all of the insane speculation behind. He might go for a run, to relieve some tension.

"Hey! It's you, ve~!"

Matthew turned his head, to see a small, tanned boy with an odd hair curl beaming at him.

"Me?" the Canadian asked sceptically.

"Si! You're Matthew Williams! We're brothers in law!"

Matthew blinked. Then he blinked again. He tried a third time, but the Italian didn't disappear.

"I don't think that's true…"

"Well, it's close enough! I'm going out with Luddy, and you're going out with Gilbert! They're brothers, ve~!"

Were that strange excited noise and the exclamation marks that liberally littered his sentences speech impediments, or was he really that enthusiastic about everything?

"Uh, well, it's nice to meet you."

"Ve~! You too, Matthew Williams! I'm Feliciano, but you can call me Feli!"

Matthew thought of Ludwig, whom he had met very briefly several times in his childhood. He had always seemed cold and stern, the exact opposite of this… person.

Then he thought of himself and Gilbert, and had to admit that it wasn't so unfeasible.

"You should come to my house sometime! We can have dinner, ve~. I'm a good cook!"

Matthew was still trying to work out if his excitement was annoying, or endearing.

"Thankyou," he replied politely, "That sounds nice."

There was a short pause, in which Matthew noticed that Feli was humming quietly to himself.

"Bye-bye, Matthew Williams! I'll see you soon, ve~!"

He trotted off, leaving Matthew more than a little bewildered.

_I just made a new friend. I think…_

* * *

Gilbert was on his way towards his car when a shadow fell over him. He frowned, and whirled around. His eyes widened.

* * *

_Anyway_, Mattie decided as he shifted his rucksack onto his shoulders and pushed open the main doors of the school, _The rumours will die down soon. They'll find something else to speculate wildly about. Until then, I guess I'll just have to keep my head down._

_It's never been so difficult before. _

There was something else that was worrying him, too. When he'd told his hockey team about his new relationship during their lunchtime practice, the response hadn't exactly been favourable. In fact, they had seemed pretty concerned, not to mention judgemental.

_Ah well. They'll get used to it._

* * *

Half an hour later, Gilbert sat on his bed with a bag of frozen peas pressed to his right eye. Ludwig was standing over him, arms folded across his chest.

"You must have done something."

Gilbert used his good eye to shoot daggers at his brother.

"Thanks for being so sympathetic, bruder! I don't even know most of those pricks."

"I thought you said that one of them was your friend Matthias?"

"…He didn't punch me, though. It was that Turkish wanker. Sadiq or something."

Ludwig's brow furrowed.

"Do you want me to talk to them"?

Gilbert let out a short, barking laugh.

"You're not my mom, Luddy."

_Oh, shit. Not a good choice of phrase. _

Ludwig's cheeks coloured, but he didn't say anything.

"No," Gilbert tried again, "Just leave it. It's not like it's the first time I've come home with a face like a Blutwurst."

"That is not the issue here. Why did this Sadiq person hit you?"

Gilbert shifted uncomfortably.

"It may have had something to do with… well… it's probably totally unconnected, but… he's on Mattie's hockey team."

Ludwig's nose wrinkled. Gilbert recognised it as his 'thinking' face.

"Mattie… that boy you are friends with?"

"Uh, yeah. Well, sort of. A little bit more than friends, actually."

"So you are dating this boy? And you haven't introduced him to us?"

"You know who he is, Lud. Besides, we're not living in the sixteenth century. I don't need dad's permission to go out with someone."

"That wasn't what I meant…So, did you hurt this Mattie boy?"

"No! I wouldn't do that! I'm a fucking awesome boyfriend!"

_Three days is enough to decide that, right?_

"Hmm. Just be careful, bruder.I- I worry about you." Ludwig's cheeks turned a dull pink colour.

"Kesesesesese, you're such a fucking pussy… But, uh, thanks."

He'd never been particularly good at this soppy shit.

"Anyway, you don't need to worry. I have a super awesome revenge plan ready. Do we still have a set of spare keys to the Swiss family's house?"

"The Zwinglis? No. That was only a temporary measure, while they were on holiday, so that Father could water their plants."

"The crowbar it is, then…"

Gilbert jumped to his feet, one hand still pressed to the frozen vegetables, and pushed Ludwig out of his room. When the door was closed he flopped back down onto his bed.

_Two death threats in one afternoon. Who'd have guessed that Mattie knew so many potential murderers? _

He let the peas drop onto his duvet and cautiously prodded at the sore skin around his eye.

_Fucking hell, that hurts. Bastard can pack a punch. _

He rescued the peas, and put them back on his face.

_Getting together with Mattie… it's worth it, right? _

It was against Gilbert's philosophy to regret any decision. But perhaps he wasn't as 100% sure of this one as he'd pretended to be.

There was a noise from downstairs, a sort of scuffling, and the low murmur of voices.

_Probably just Feli._

Footsteps on the stairs, then his door was opening.

Mattie stood in the entrance to his room, hair tousled, with a concerned look on his face. It took Gil a few minutes to notice those things, however, because at the moment his gaze was locked firmly on his boyfriend's shorts.

They were tight.

They were red.

They were tiny.

Gilbert smiled to himself as Mattie started babbling about how sorry he was, and how he never expected his team-mates to do something like this, and how awful he felt. The albino sat up as Mattie came closer, then tugged him down into a bruising kiss.

_Fucking hell, it's worth it._

**It's a filler, but the real action will resume in chapter nine. As always, please let me know what you think! **


	9. Of change and terror

**AN: I promised plot, and delivered yet more backstory. However, this is ultimately important for story development! And I swear that in the next chapter (coming very soon) events will actually start to happen. This has gone on for rather too long with no story and no sex. But things are going to change...On that note, on with the chapter! I apologise for any spelling/grammar errors. Be warned that this chapter does contain sexual references and language which some may find offensive (but you knew that by now, right?).**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia Axis Powers.**

Arthur stared blankly at his own fingers, splayed out on the tabletop. They looked very white, and very thin, against the red plastic surface.

_What am I doing? _

There had never really been a beginning, with Francis. The French boy had been there for as long as Arthur could remember, popping up at birthday parties and play areas since they were both toddlers. Their mothers were good friends, sharing a love of home baking and classical music, and as their youngest sons were the same age it was always assumed that they would develop a similar bond.

They didn't. Arthur despised being lumped together with Francis, being abandoned by his older brothers and left in the company of the blonde boy with the strange accent and the pointed nose, who teased and mocked him.

The feeling was mutual. Francis couldn't understand why his mama insisted on making him interact with this tiny imbecile who muttered about fairies and shouted (inexplicably and often).

Still, years passed, and they both grudgingly admitted that they weren't exactly enemies, either. When they had worn themselves out from screaming at each other, when every possible insult had been exchanged and they were red-faced and tired and full of unsatisfied rage, they would curl up together on the sofa and fall asleep with their shoulders brushing.

Of course, when their mothers finally finished chatting about whatever it is that mothers chat about, and discovered their young sons in that position, their continued insistence that they were not (in any way, shape or form) friends, was ignored.

(Mothers are very often right.)

Francis' hair grew longer, and his nose became pointier, and he developed a superiority complex as big as their neighbourhood. Arthur's cheekbones became more prominent, and he chewed his fingernails ragged, and the mystical creatures that had entertained and soothed him throughout his childhood slipped away like water through a sieve.

They still didn't like each other.

But when Arthur was taunted and excluded and eventually ignored by his classmates at school, he hovered near Francis - arms crossed, head down - until the French boy paid him some attention.

And when Francis came home to find a strange car in the driveway, and an even stranger man with his hands all over his mama's body, it was Arthur's house he went to and Arthur's mother who gave him a mug of warm milk and told him he could sleep on the couch.

They say that familiarity breeds contempt. They're liars. As Arthur and Francis so accurately showed, familiarity creates bonds.

* * *

Francis was thirteen when everything changed. It was the end of August, and he had just arrived back from the somewhat traditional holiday to France that he and his mother took annually. The day after their flight returned was Andrew Kirkland's birthday, and as usual they had been invited to the party at Arthur's house.

Now, Francis was feeling rather smug. The facts were these:

1. While he had been staying with his grandparents in their large house in the Parisian suburbs, their next-door neighbour's daughter, Jeanne, had also been visiting.

2. Jeanne was very pretty.

3. On the day before Francis left, Jeanne had kissed him on the mouth – his first kiss, to date.

4. He knew that Arthur had never even held hands with a girl, and was looking forward to rubbing his own romantic success in the British boy's face.

(Unfortunately for Francis, however, the future rarely follows our expectations. Life is a river of a thousand meanders, and he was about to reach a pretty damn big one)

He arrived at the Kirkland house with his mother, shoved the gift she had bought at Andrew, who was sixteen and obnoxious and had called him a "twat" more times than he could count, and set off to find Arthur. It took him a while, but he eventually discovered him sitting alone at the bottom of the garden, hiding behind a large rose bush and looking miserable.

He'd never been very good at social situations.

Arthur looked at him with a hint of a smirk, and Francis wondered what kind of bulldozer he'd just been run over with. Something was different. Arthur was different. He had the same features- the same snub nose, chapped lips and deep eyes. He still looked a little like a ghost, with deathly pale skin and light hair. His build hadn't changed much – he was as thin as ever, although he might have grown a couple of centimetres.

And yet- and yet those characteristics seemed to have been arranged differently. Something had shifted- something subtle, something delicate, but strong enough to change him.

Suddenly, Arthur was beautiful.

He opened that perfect mouth, and- "Why are you staring at me, you wanker?"

* * *

From that moment on, things weren't the same any more. It took Arthur a little while to figure it out, and a lot longer to achieve any semblance of understanding, but a new factor had entered the equation of their sort-of-friendship.

Sex.

They didn't have it (well, not with each other), they rarely talked about it, and Arthur refused to acknowledge it, but it was there all the same. Francis' snarky comments became flirtatious. His glares morphed into long looks. His violent shoves turned into playful jostles.

Arthur hated it.

His relationship with Francis hadn't been pleasant, or gentle, or caring, but it was real. It was constant. It hadn't changed in ten years.

This new element, this wild card, disgusted him. Suddenly, the French boy was just like all the others. Just like that kid (what was his name again, Chris something) who had bullied him all through elementary school, pushed him around in middle school, called him a queer in high school, then cornered him in the toilets one day and asked in a low voice if he would blow him.

Francis Bonnefoy, Chris Whatever-his-name-was, his brother's friend who leered and stared at him, the guy on the bus who brushed his fingers over his arse as he passed by… they were all the same. They didn't love him, they didn't even like him, but they wanted him in their beds.

Bloody bastards, the lot of them.

_And now I'm letting one touch my skin and kiss my mouth and run their fingers through my hair. _

Arthur slowly let his head sink to rest on the bright red tabletop.

It was all because of him. All because of Alfred fucking Jones. Arthur wanted him. He wanted him like he had never wanted anyone before. And that- that terrified him.

He didn't want to be needy. He didn't want to be vulnerable. He wanted to be fawned over, not fawning.

Alfred wanted him too, any idiot could see that – but how badly? Arthur needed him to be utterly devoted to him before he could even consider the possibility of a relationship.

Francis wanted to get into his pants. That was easy to deal with.  
Alfred wanted to get into his heart. That was a hell of a lot harder to handle.

He had to be sure. Absolutely, definitely, undoubtedly sure. Otherwise, he'd end up powerless and broken. And yes, he knew that he was using Francis – but Francis had been using him for years.

Arthur's phone, lying next to him on the table, buzzed again. Four missed calls from Alfred, in the space of half an hour. By the time he left the cheap café, ten minutes later, you could hardly even tell he'd been crying.

* * *

Gilbert was singing. It was a tune he'd composed himself, and it was called, "I am an awesome boyfriend, oh yes, I am indeed".

Needless to say, it was not going to become a chart-topper.

He was also making tea. Now, this wasn't an activity that Gilbert usually carried out (mostly because he didn't like tea, and he was a selfish bugger). However, it had emerged that Matthew did like tea.

And so, like the awesome boyfriend he was, Gilbert was making it.

The only problem- well, not problem. Gilbert didn't believe in problems, just alternative solutions – was that he wasn't completely one hundred percent sure _how_ to make tea.

There was milk involved. He was pretty sure of that. And water, too, and teabags (well, duh) and it was hot. Gilbert shrugged, splashed some milk into a cup, added a bit of water, dropped a teabag in (were they supposed to float?) and, after a moment's consideration, poured in a hefty serving of maple syrup. Then, still mumbling to himself, he put the whole thing in the microwave for a couple of minutes.

_Things are going awesomely_, he thought as he leant against the kitchen wall, waiting.

_You need to expand your repertoire of adjectives, _the Ludwig-voice chipped in.

_You need to expand your penis._

After a moment, Gilbert added, _Because it's so tiny._

_Thankyou for clarifying that, _the Ludwig-voice snapped back, _But I did actually get your puerile attempt at humour._

_Hey, _Gilbert was suddenly struck by a thought, _Is there a Feliciano-voice floating around here somewhere?_

_No, _the Ludwig-voice replied, after a slight pause, _You're not that insane yet. _

_Shit! That's why you're even more anal retentive than the actual Lud! You're not getting any! _

_I don't actually exist, you imbecile. I'm just a figment of your drug and alcohol addled mind. _

_Wow… way to make it un-fun, Voice. You should be ashamed of yourself. _

_Your "tea" is ready._

_Wha-?_

_Your horrific abomination is ready. The microwave rang a moment ago._

_The microwave rang? Who's calling, Captain Birds-Eye? _

Snickering to himself, Gilbert opened the microwave door and took out the cup. It didn't look much like tea… But maybe it was the maple syrup. Still, Mattie was crazy about that stuff.

_That joke doesn't work. If it was the freezer ringing, it would work. But you don't put frozen food in the microwave._

_Oh, fuck off back to Atlantis and leave me in peace! _

_Atlantis? I'm not Namor! _

_No. You're not awesome enough to be Namor. Oh, Namor…_

* * *

Matthew was perched on the edge of the couch, smiling weakly. When he'd entered the house, round about fifteen minutes ago, the smile had been fairly genuine. Now, thanks to the combined efforts of Ludwig and Feliciano, it was the grimace of a man long past sanity.

"…so I ran out into the field to look at it! But then- oh, I wasn't looking- it turns out, they were in the middle of a football match at the time, ve~! I got to the middle, and picked up the ladybird, and it was so pretty, it had seven spots and it was such a lovely shade of red and it had cute little stalks on it's head! But when I looked up, there were all these nasty people running towards me with helmets on… and then Ludwig appeared! And he carried me away, it was like, 'wooosh!', so fast! And he carried me to safety…"

Since he arrived, Feliciano had been relentlessly bombarding him with the story of his relationship with Ludwig, which seemed to consist mostly of the Italian boy getting himself into ridiculous, dangerous situations, then being rescued by the German. The tale was interspersed with the occasional doting look, or quick hug of Ludwig's arm.

Meanwhile, Gilbert's brother was giving him the patented death-glare #12. Matthew shivered slightly, and had to admit that it was effective.

_Does he hate me? It kind of seems like he hates me…_

"… but it turned out that they were just about to crush the car! Oh, it was so funny, ve~! I wasn't scared, because I knew that Ludwig would come eventually –"

"Take care of my brother." Ludwig cut his boyfriend off, his voice low and authoritative. Matthew couldn't nod fast enough.

"I- I intend to," he managed to reply.

_I don't care what people say about Ivan. He's got nothing on this guy… _

Jus then, Gilbert reappeared in the doorway like some kind of angel, smiling benevolently and holding a steaming cup in his hands.

"Oh, stop being so prissy, Luddy!" He sat down heavily on the couch next to Mattie, and handed over the cup. "Don't listen to him," he advised his boyfriend.

Matthew was about to reply. Unfortunately, he chose that moment to look down into the cup of… well, whatever it was.

Gilbert blinked at him, eyes big and deceptively innocent.

"Aren't you going to drink any?" he asked, sounding wounded.

Mattie couldn't tear his eyes away from the liquid. When he did glance at Gilbert, however, he looked so wounded that Matthew knew he didn't really have a choice.

He picked up the cup, did his best to hold his nose surreptitiously, and drank.

The things we do for love, eh?

**There you have it! I hope you've enjoyed this chapter, and haven't given up all hope of ever seeing any plot. Thankyou for reading, and please review! I really hope that I can get past the 100 barrier, which would make this my most-reviewed story ever (as well as my longest). Anyway, let me know what you think! **


	10. Of poetry and cravings

**Chapter Ten! This is the longest one yet, believe it or not. I hope you enjoy it. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia Axis Powers, or the poetry of William S Gilbert. **

"Mr Jones?"

Alfred's gaze stayed miserably fixed on the square patch of carpet in front of his desk. There was a whitish smudge in the middle of it, where some thoughtless teenager had dropped a blob of gum on the floor. It had since been trampled on by hundreds of oblivious students, rendering it nothing more than a vague, sticky patch staining the carpet.

"Mr Jones!"

A pair of dull brown brogues suddenly entered his line of vision. He followed them upwards to find his english teacher, Mr Graham, glaring down at him.

"Do you intend to pay any semblance of attention this lesson?"

Alfred had long since learned that in times like this, the question was fairly rhetorical. Giving an honest answer was hardly ever appreciated.

"That's it." The teacher reached up to adjust his glasses. "You can read out the poem you've chosen."

He had a pimple on his nose. Alfred couldn't stop staring at it. He was vaguely aware that the guy was talking, but his words were hazy and unclear.

"You did bring an emotive poem to analyse, didn't you Mr Jones?"

Alfred blinked up at the teacher as the syllables finally arranged themselves into a sentence.

"Yeah," he assured the brown-haired man, "I did the homework."

"Good," Mr Graham snapped, "Get up then, and read your poem to the class."

Alfred looked down at the mess of papers on his desk, which he had been using as a makeshift (and not very comfortable) pillow. He shot Mr Graham what he hoped was a winning grin and began rummaging through them, trying to find the elusive sheet on which he had scribbled the poem.

A light tap on his shoulder informed him that Kiku, sitting next to him, was attempting to get his attention. "I'm busy," Alfred hissed, throwing paper onto the floor as Mr Graham's fists became slowly more clenched.

A moment later, Kiku quietly cleared his throat. "Seriously, man, I need to find this," Alfred told him without glancing away from his heroic quest. Where was that damn poem? Alfred grabbed his notepad and rifled through it, although he was fairly certain that he hadn't written it in there.

"Alfred-san," Kiku said. His voice was little more than a whisper, but it seemed to carry an edge of authority.

"What is it?" Alfred exclaimed, completely exasperated, and turned to look at the Japanese boy. Kiku was staring at him with his usual blank expression, and in his outstretched hand- the runaway poem!

"Oh, man, thanks!" Al cried, snatching up the piece of paper. Kiku's cheeks flushed a dull pink, but Alfred- already pushing back his seat to stand up- didn't notice.

"Uh, this is a poem by a guy called William S. Gilbert. He was English…" Alfred trailed off, his eyelids drooping, but recovered a second later.

"So, yeah. I'll read it now:

Love, unrequited, robs me of my rest…"

The students began to glance at one another as their star quarterback's voice cracked. Kiku shook his head almost unnoticeably to himself. Alfred coughed and continued.

"Love, hopeless love, my ardent soul encumbers…"

The class reaction was mixed. Some people were marvelling that Alfred knew what words like 'ardent' and 'encumbers' meant. Others were watching with something like fascinated horror as the American boy's voice gurgled and bubbled. It was almost as if he was trying very hard not to try.

"Love, nightmare-like, lies heavy on my chest…"

A single tear slid down Alfred's cheek. It seemed unlikely that such a thing would happen in real life, but the glistening trail marking the teenager's skin proved otherwise.

"And weaves itself into my midnight slumbers!"

With that, Alfred started sobbing. For a few seconds, every other person in the room simply stared at him. Then Kiku stood up calmly, put a small hand on Alfred's shoulder, and stated,

"The heat is affecting him. May I take him to the nurse's office to recover, Mr Graham?"

The teacher nodded _- finally, something to add to the staff room gossip!_ – and Alfred was lead, still blubbering, out of the room.

There was a long moment of silence.

"What are you all staring at?" Mr Graham snapped, "Sandra, I can see the phone under your desk! Mr Wilkins, stop gazing out of the window like a dumb animal and read your poem."

In an otherwise deserted corridor, Kiku gently guided a snivelling Alfred towards the nurse's office. Occasionally, the American boy would babble something in a distressed but entirely nonsensical manner

Kiku wondered (for the seven hundred and eighty ninth time since the school year had begun) whether every single person he knew was utterly insane.

The evidence was mounting.

* * *

"Matthew Williams?"

Matthew glanced up from the blood circulation diagram he was drawing in his biology exercise book. There was a woman he recognised as one of the school receptionists standing in the doorway of the classroom, staring straight at him.

"Yes," he said quickly, straightening up, "Um, that's me."

"Your brother's in the nurse's office. He asked for you."

Matthew looked at his biology teacher, who nodded without looking away from his computer screen, then hastily shoved his book and pencil case into his rucksack. In the seat beside him, Arthur had been staring fixedly at the same word in his text book since Alfred had been mentioned.

Matthew ignored him.

_If he's so concerned about Alfred's wellbeing, he should bloody tell him how he feels. _

The nurse passed him as he entered her office, muttering about teenage hormones and pulling a packet of cigarettes out of her pocket. Matthew wrinkled his nose, turning to watch her disappear down the corridor.

_Why do people smoke? It's such a filthy, disgusting habit. Not to mention all the health conditions that are related to it. And the awful smell…_

(At this point, dear reader, we must think back to this particular Canadian's boyfriend, and shake our heads.)

Alfred was lying on the small daybed that smelt strongly of vomit, his face buried in the pillow. He was too tall for the mattress, meaning that his feet stuck out over the edge in a way that would have been comical if he hadn't been sobbing so very loudly.

Kiku was sitting on a chair next to the bed, looking intensely uncomfortable. When he caught sight of Matthew he stood up, gave him what was possibly the fastest bow in the history of ever, and hurried out of the door.

Matthew wished that he could follow him.

Instead, he sat down awkwardly on the chair Kiku had just vacated, and placed what he hoped was a comforting hand on his brother's back.

"It's okay," he said gently, "Don't cry, Al."

Alfred's head jerked up. He glared at Matthew through watery blue eyes rimmed wih red.

"I'm not crying," he denied.

Evidence for Alfred crying: The tears running down his cheeks, the wailing gulps that tore through his body every few seconds, his pale, blotchy skin and the fact that the pillow was very definitely damp.

Evidence for Alfred not crying: His previous statement.

A defense like that would never hold up in court.

"Uh, okay," Matthew replied as Alfred's head returned to the cushion. He sat there in silence for a moment, wondering what on earth he should do.

_I could kick him out of bed, pull him up by his shirt and demand that he stop being such a fucking pussy and get over himself._

We must conclude that Gilbert's influence was having a strange effect on the usually calm Canadian.

_No, _he decided, returning to his (somewhat dubious) senses, _That would be far too harsh. I'll just try to cheer him up. _

With that thought in mind, Matthew said chirpily, "Buck up, Al. I heard there's a new MacDonalds opening west of the shopping mall. We could go and check it out after school if you-"

"I LOVE HIM. I LOVE HIM SOOO MUCH…"

_Well, that failed like a nun trying to pole dance. _

"I know, Al. I know…"

Matthew thought of Arthur's head, and of the anguish that the British boy was putting his brother through, and of his hockey stick.

_No. Remember what happened last time…_

"He doesn't love me."

The words were muffled by the pillow, but still miserable enough that Matthew felt another heart-wrenching pang of sympathy for his usuallly cheerful brother.

"You just need to give him time."

Alfred rolled over, clutching at his hair like a man posessed.

"I've given him time!" he yelled, his voice far too loud for the small, claustrophobic room, "You know how long I've loved him, Mattie? Three years! Three fucking years!"

Matthew did know. Alfred had many positive qualities, but being able to keep a secret was not one of them.

"That French mother-fucker doesn't love him!"

_Oh, he's not finished. Pity._

"No one could love him like I do. That bastard just wants to get at his ass! And it's such a nice ass…"

Matthew was torn between agreeing that Francis was indeed the devil incarnate, perhaps suggesting that they concocted a plan involving the french boy, the school flagpole and a heavy helping of permanent marker, and defending him.

He was their cousin, after all.

"And now- now I can't even talk to him…"

_He's still not done?_

"…because every time I do, it makes me love him even more! And- and I can't have him. So I've lost my best friend, too."

_Maybe sticking up for Francis wouldn't be such a clever idea. He has been kind of a douche about this._

Alfred descended into those cracked sobs again, and Matthew cautiously began stroking his thick hair.

"I know. I know. Stop crying, Al."

The words didn't seem to register with the sniffling American.

"We're in the middle of school."

Still no discernable effect.

"I think you could get the office to let you go home, if you want. Come on, Al."

Nada. Nothing. Zilch.

"Imagine what all those people who watch you playing football will think if they see you like this."

Alfred sat up so quickly that Matthew was sure his head must have spun.

"You're right!" he shouted, and Matthew winced, "I can't disappoint their fans! Their hero must not let them down!"

He pushed himself off the bed, rubbing at his swollen eyes with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Matthew surreptitiously took a tissue out of his pocket and pressed it into his brother's hand. Alfred didn't thank him, but honestly, Mattie would have been more surprised if he had.

Arthur Kirkland had a lot to answer for.

* * *

"Gilbert?"

Matthew was lurking in the toilets, too obedient to consider pulling out his phone anywhere else in school. The experience with Alfred had left him completely drained. He wanted to talk to his boyfriend, arrange some gentle, easy, self-esteem-refuelling get-together tonight, and try his best to forget about that events of the past hour.

But apparently, Gilbert had other ideas. Matthew's call had gone straight onto the answering machine, which meant that the albino had turned his phone off. This was intensely unusual; Gilbert never, ever missed a call, and he wasn't at all averse to answering in the middle of a lesson.

"Gilbert, uh, I was thinking we could meet up after school."

Matthew had never been very good at leaving messages. One especially memorable incident when he was fourteen involved him trying to ask one of their neighbour's for their casserole dish (which the neighbour had borrowed) back, via an answering machine, and getting so flustered that he ended up telling the woman that she could not only keep the dish, but that he would buy her a nicer one, too, and he'd bake her a cake to make up for the inconvenience caused.

They never got that casserole dish. It had been a family heirloom, too.

So it's understandable that Matthew wanted to keep this message as clear and concise as possible.

"Um, just call me when you get this."

Or avoid the whole messy process altogether.

Matthew slipped the phone back into his pocket, fixed his hair in the mirror, and took a long, meditatory breath.

He liked Gilbert, he really did. He liked his crazy enthusiasm, and his bone-crushing hugs, and the way he always tasted vaguely of peppermint. He liked his terrible car, and his eye-wateringly bad jokes, and his hissing laugh.

But when he witnessed Alfred's devotion to Arthur, he couldn't help but wonder if there was something missing.

Gilbert was just so unpredictable. At 5:00pm, they could be locked in an intense kissing session. By 5:05, the albino would be screeching at him as they battled on one of his numerous video games, acting exactly as if they were brothers.

There was no continuity, no stability. It was exciting, but also made Matthew feel somewhat insecure.

_I never know what's going on. It's like I'm constantly one step behind. And he has such a hectic life. When we're not together, he could be doing anything. _

Matthew stared at his reflection for a moment.

_I'm just being stupid_, he told himself as he washed his hands and splashed water on his face, _I trust Gilbert. I trust him. I really do._

He wiped his hands, patted his face dry, and glanced in the mirror once more.

He wished that his eyes weren't shining with that edge of desperation.

* * *

"I've been such an idiot," the giant cigarette said, "How could I have acted so stupidly?"

"I don't know," Gilbert murmured.

His mouth was dry, aching for a breath of sweet, heady smoke.

"Gil? Gilbert? Are you listening, amigo?"

The albino boy blinked, and the anthropomorphic cigarette warped into Antonio. The Spanish boy said something else, but Gilbert was too focused on the fag resting between his fingers to notice.

"I thought you stopped smoking?"

Antonio blinked, and shrugged, and took a long drag of the cigarette.

"I did. But in this moment of despair, I cannot deny myself simple pleasures, no?"

Gilbert licked his lips. That did make an awful lot of sense. The packet sitting on Antonio's couch was almost full, and he'd probably be willing to give him one. If not, he could go down to the shop at the end of the Spanish boy's road. Oh, but it was a school day, so he'd be knee-deep in shit if anyone recgonised him. Especially considering his attendance record…

_Why am I even here? _

"Because you said you'd help me win back my little Lovino!"

_Shit. Didn't realise I'd said that out loud._

Gilbert coughed hastily, and tried not to look at the shining end of the cigarette.

"Er, right. So how did you fuck up?"

Antonio shook his head forlornly.

"It was Lovino's birthday a few weeks ago, so I bought him this." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black box, which he opened to reveal a gold pendant, maybe two and a half centimetres long, with tiny roses entwined around a cross.

"Real gold?"

"Si." Antonio stared at it for a moment, then carefully closed the lid and put it back into his jacket.

"What's the problem, then? He didn't like it?"

"No…" Toni sighed heavily, "I didn't get to give it to him."

Gilbert rubbed at his left eye, "Get the fuck on with it."

"I got to Lovino's house, but Feli opened the door. So I said hello and wished him a happy birthday, and gave him the present I bought him-"

"What was it?"

"A little hat. It was so cute…Anyway, he liked it a lot, and he put it on, but then Lovino saw, and he thought- oh, he thought that I had forgotten that it was his birthday, and that I liked Feli better, and I was only using Lovi to get to him!"

Gilbert scratched at his wrist idly, turning the story over in his head.

"So Lovino got the wrong idea because he's a prissy bitch with anger management issues?"

"No!" Antonio's eyes were wide and shocked, "He's my sweet darling Lovi! I mislead him and made him sad…"

"You didn't do anything, Tone. He's just being a fuckwad. If anything, he should apologise to you. And me, for wasting my fucking time."

"You don't understand! He's sensitive…"

Gilbert thought of Lovino.

_He's about as sensitive as a cement block._

He sighed, more for dramatic effect than anything else.

"Okay, I'll help you. But not for free."

Antonio smiled at him.

"What do you want in return, amigo?"

Gilbert's eyes focused on the packet of cigarettes.

"I have a few ideas…"

**Mr Graham is no-one. I guess that makes him an OC, but I don't think he's really got a big enough part to even be classed as a character. He's more of a walking plot device. Anyway, please review! Even constructive criticism is better than nothing. Thankyou in advance!**


	11. Of rebellion and pot plants

**Thanks again to everyone who has reviewed so far. I know that the past few chapters haven't been much more than pointless ramblings interspersed with dick jokes, but I swear that there is a plot out there, and it may even start to surface soon. As always, sorry for any spelling/grammar mistakes or inaccuracies. Thankyou for reading, and enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hetalia Axis Powers characters. I also don't own The Beatles, the films of Norman Foster, or these socks.**

"I'm not smoking," Gilbert mumbled to himself, "I'm not, honest. I'm just looking at the cigarettes. There's no harm in looking, right? Just looking…"

He glanced around to make sure that he was alone, then slipped his fingernail under the thin cardboard and tugged the packet open.

"Just touching. Nothing wrong with touching."

He drew out one long, perfect cigarette, and after a moment's thought put it to his lips.

"I'm just holding it. In my mouth. Not doing anything else at all. It's just a convenient place to hold it."

He'd chosen his spot carefully; behind the swimming pool, near the dumpsters. It stunk of fetid garbage and chlorine and (needless to say) was not a popular destination. Gilbert wasn't worried about other people seeing him, exactly. People, he could deal with. People, he didn't care about.

Mattie, who was not 'people' but 'a person', was the problem. Gilbert could still remember the Canadian boy's attitude towards smoking, the thousands of self-help leaflets and nicotine patches that had been posted through his door when he was trying to quit (he'd used the leaflets to construct a small but perfectly formed fort, and put all of the patches on at once. The only results were a slight headache and blue lips) not to mention the way Mattie's lip curled back when they passed someone holding a cigarette.

_Not holding_, Gilbert corrected himself, _Holding is fine. Holding is practically encouraged. It's smoking that has to be avoided. _

Anyway, avoiding Mattie was his number one priority at the moment.

His tongue flickered over the end of the cigarette in his mouth.

_Number two priority. _

Gilbert's hand, as if moving by itself, went into his pocket and pulled out a small red lighter.

_Lighting a cigarette in your mouth isn't the same as smoking, is it? That- that's just physics, man._

_Please refrain from desecrating my second favourite subject by revealing your shockingly limited knowledge of it. _

_FUCKING HELL! _

The cigarette fell from his mouth, momentarily forgotten.

_Luddy-Voice! You're back! Where the fuck have you been? _

_I have had other matters to concern myself with. However-_

_You've been with Feli-Voice, haven't you?_

_I told you before, there is no- _

_Doing nasty, dirty Voice things. _

_That's not even-_

'_Ooh, Luddy-Voice, I love how smart you are, ve~! Let's get physical!'_

_SHUT UP. JUST- JUST STOP THINKING._

…_Hit a nerve there, did I? _

_As I have attempted to explain to you countless times before, I don't have any nerves, with the exception of the ones I share with you! I don't have a physical presence! I'm just a Voice in your head!_

_Are you having an identity crisis? _

_No! No I'm not! You're merely clinically insane! _

_Wow, Voice. That was really mean, even for you…_

_Look, I'm sorry, but-_

_Really low. _

_There are more important-_

_You hurt me, not just mentally, but also emotionally._

_Matthew is approximately three feet away from you!_

Gilbert dropped the packet of cigarettes in shock.

_Why didn't you tell me?_

_I tried!_

Gilbert waved his hands to try to clear his head, a surprisingly common method which didn't do a thing. He could hear the soft footsteps now as Mattie approached. He looked at the lighter in his hand, the cigarettes scattered all over the floor, and gulped.

Making a hasty and not at all well thought out decision, Gilbert scooped up all of the cigarettes and shoved them into the bottom of the plant pot next to him, patting some soil over them to try and disguise them a little.

_Wait, plant pot? This plant pot wasn't mentioned before. Why would there be a plant pot behind the swimming pool?_

Thankfully, mere seconds before Gilbert shattered the fourth wall and became horrifyingly self-aware, Mattie came round the corner.

"Gil!" he was smiling, the sun shining off his hair, looking just a little like an angel, "What are you doing with that plant?"

Confusion is not a particularly angelic emotion, but he managed to pull it off.

Gilbert quickly straightened up, wiping the dirt off on his jeans.

_Think fast, Mr Moto!_

_What? Voice, this is not a good time for you to become sassy!_

"I was…uh, I was being a naturist," Gilbert said, hoping that Mattie would accept it as yet another of his boyfriend's quirks.

_Quirks are cute, right?_

Judging by Mattie's expression, which hovered somewhere between shocked and horrified, he didn't think so.

"I- A naturist? I- I don't understand…"

A lifetime of mischief had forced Gilbert to develop a rather impressive bullshitting technique.

"Yeah. My dad's into it, and he's always trying to get me to join in, y'know?"

Mr Beillschmidt was not, in fact, a flora and fauna enthusiast. But (Gilbert figured) Mattie had no way of knowing that.

"Your dad?" The blood had drained from Mattie's cheeks, leaving him as white and pasty as an anaemic ghost. Gilbert was beginning to feel vaguely uncomfortable.

"Er, yeah. You okay, Matt?"

"But- you're wearing clothes! And how does the plant help?"

Now it was Gilbert's turn to look confused.

"Yeah, why wouldn't I be wearing clothes? And how could I be a naturist without a plant?"

They stared at one another for a moment, wearing matching expressions of confusion. Then

Mattie's face split into a relieved smile, and he began to laugh. Gilbert frowned at him, torn between joining in – Mattie had an infectious sort of laugh – and demanding that he tell him what was so funny.

"What is it?" he snapped, when the tension grew too great to ignore.

"You-you don't-" Apparently Mattie hadn't mastered the art of talking whilst sniggering, "-You don't mean – hehe, you don't mean naturist! You mean naturalist! A naturist is someone who- who goes around – haha, naked!"

It took a moment for the words to sink in. As soon as they had, however, Gilbert felt an incriminating heat creep into his cheeks.

_At least this has distracted him from what I was actually doing in that plant pot…_

"Heh. That's, uh, that's funny. What an idiot." Gilbert forced out a chuckle. It sounded more like a sneeze, but the intention was there.

Mattie shook his head, smiling fondly at his boyfriend. The sun bathed one side of his face, highlighting the sharp angle of his nose.

"You know what?" Gilbert said quickly, "We should- we should go out somewhere. Yeah."

Mattie touched one hand to his ear, a nervous gesture that Gilbert recognised from childhood. "Uh, it's the middle of the day, Gil. We can't just leave."

_This is more like it._

Back in his element, Gilbert grinned devilishly at the blonde boy. "Yeah, we can," he said in a low voice, "It's as easy as- well, as easy as feigning a doctor's note and driving straight out of here."

Matthew's eyes widened, as if acknowledging the possibility for the first time, then he shook his head firmly. But Gilbert had seen it- seen the flower of opportunity blossom in the Canadian's mind. He of all people knew how difficult it was to resist.

Rebellion was always such a thrilling prospect.

"Come on," he begged, "We can go get waffles. Waffles, Mattie!"

"I don't even like waffles," Mattie mumbled.

"What? I didn't catch that," Gilbert replied, scrunching up his nose (as if that would help him hear better).

Mattie wisely refrained from replying. He'd lost friends over his lack of interest in the sweet, dough-based snack.

"Whatever," Gil's famously short attention span came to the rescue once again, "Skipping school's real simple. We won't even get caught."

Matthew eyed him carefully, violet eyes cautious.

"You promise?"

Gilbert's teeth glinted silver as he smiled. He reached out and took one of the Canadian boy's warm hands in his own, squeezing it tightly.

"I promise."

Mattie bit his bottom lip. When he released it, it was beautifully red and wet, and Gilbert couldn't resist leaning in to place a gentle kiss on his mouth. He pulled back to find Mattie's cheeks tinged pink.

"Okay," he sighed. A hint of a smile played about on his lips.

"Awesome," Gilbert turned back to his rucksack and bent down, rummaging around in it. He straightened up again, shoving something into his pocket, and put his hands on his hips. "Now, you need to go to the office, and say that you're expecting a call from your father."

Mattie blinked at him. "What? Why? I thought we were leaving!"

"We are," Gilbert clarified, "But unless you want every damn truant officer in the state on our backs, we need to do a bit of prep work. So go to the office."

He didn't look convinced. Time to pull out the guilt card.

"Don't you trust me?"

There was a worryingly long pause, before Mattie replied, "Of course I do. Don't be stupid. It's just…"

"Just nothing." Gilbert ruffled his hair, as if he were his child. "Go on, Birdie."

* * *

A few minutes later, Matthew found himself hovering awkwardly in front of the reception desk, half hoping that no one would be around to listen to him.

_This is such a bad idea. What if my mom finds out? I'll be grounded forever. I'll never be able to see Gil again, so he won't want to go out with me. _

_But if I don't go ahead with this, he'll think I'm as dull as a… as a pencil. A really boring one, without a rubber. There are thousands of more interesting pencils out there, with sparkly bits and extra contraptions and sharpeners attached. He won't want to go out with me then, either! _

_I'm thinking about this way too hard. Gil's showing me a different side of his life - I should be pleased. And skipping school is exciting, right? It's supposed to be fun. _

_I'm pretty sure Alfred's done it before. How difficult can it possibly be? _

"Yes?" a middle-aged receptionist with a perm had arrived, and was watching him expectantly. Mattie swallowed, absolutely terrified.

_What the hell am I doing?_

"Uh, I'm, I'm expecting a call from my- my father." Mattie was sure that the woman didn't believe a word of it. He'd be given a detention for trying to leave, and they'd put a big black mark on his permanent record, and he'd be kicked off the hockey team immediately.

"Okay. I'll put him through when he calls," the receptionist said, and went back to her sudoku. Mattie exhaled, relieved. Now all he had to worry about was the phone call. He was still completely at a loss as to what Gilbert was planning.

A moment later, the telephone buzzed, and after pressing it to her ear for a second the receptionist passed it over. Mattie cradled the receiver in his hand, turning away so that the woman couldn't see his face.

"Hello?" he said tentatively.

"Sup, Birdie," replied a very familiar voice.

Mattie glanced back at the receptionist, wondering if she could hear.

"Uh, hello, _dad_," he hissed into the phone. What was Gilbert playing at? This would never work.

"Don't worry, Mattie," Gilbert said, as if he could read the Canadian boy's thoughts, "I've got it all planned out. Just do what I tell you, okay? Say that you'll be outside in a moment."

"Er, I'll be outside in a moment." Mattie's voice was little more than a squeak.

"Heh, relax, Matt. Now tell me that you need a pass to leave."

"I need a pass to leave school."

"Okay, we're all set. Hand the phone back to the receptionist, alright?" Mattie did as he was told, glad to have finished the conversation.

The receptionist listened to the receiver for a moment. Matthew began chewing on his thumbnail, sure that she'd recognise Gilbert's voice and they'd be found out.

He was intensely surprised, therefore, when she said a stiff, "Yes, I understand, Mr Jones. I'll write him one right away."

He watched, a little dumbstruck, as she pulled out an absence pass from the drawer beside her and scribbled a signature on it. She held it out to him and he took it carefully, as if it would burn his fingers.

"Keep this to show your teachers so that your absence is excused," she told him, in the bored drawl of a person who'd said these words a thousands times before.

"Right," Mattie replied, "Thanks." The absence pass, his ticket to truancy, felt oddly heavy in his hands. An Asian boy he vaguely recognised from his history class walked past, and he ducked his head to avoid being seen.

"And I hope the surgery goes well," the receptionist said. He stared at her for a moment, and then nodded hurriedly, his cheeks flushing.

"Er, yes. Thankyou."

* * *

"I cannot believe we're doing this," Mattie said as Gilbert clicked his seatbelt into place. They weren't in Gilbert's car, for once. He'd led Mattie to a shiny Volkswagen in the school parking lot. It was Ludwig's prize possession; he'd nicked the keys out of his brother's pocket when they passed each other in the corridor after period one.

_He won't mind. Much. _

"I can't believe you've never done it before," Gil replied, craning his head to check the rear view mirror before pulling out of the parking space. "You're losing your truant virginity, right now." He gave that strange hissing laugh of his and Mattie glowered at him.

"Wait," he said, as they drove towards the guard's hut, "I have a pass, but you don't. How are we going to get out?"

Gilbert winked at him. "Don't you worry your pretty little head about that," he teased, earning himself a hard whack on the shoulder from his boyfriend.

He slowed down outside the window where the security guard, Bernard, was waiting.

"Got passes?" the man asked, scratching idly at his chin.

"Yup," Gil replied, plucking Mattie's pass out of his grasp and handing it over. The guard squinted at it, then thrust it back through the window.

"What about you, Beillschmidt?"

With another wink at Matthew, Gil pulled a bit of paper out of his pocket. The Canadian recognised it as the slip he had retrieved from his rucksack earlier. He passed it to Bernard, who glanced at it for a moment before giving it back.

"Alright," he shrugged, "Go on through."

Gilbert elbowed Mattie gently in the side. "Open my rucksack. There should be a packet of cookies in there. Get them out, will you?"

The blonde boy unzipped the bag at his feet and found a tube of Oreos, which he obediently handed over to Gilbert. The albino shoved them through the window, grinning.

"These are for you, big guy."

Bernard took the cookies with an expression somewhere near reverence. "Thanks, Beillschmidt." Gilbert waved a hand dismissively.

"Any time."

With that, they drove through the school gates and out onto the road. Gilbert flicked the radio on, wound down the window, and grinned at Mattie.

"Freedom!" he yelled. The Canadian smiled sheepishly back at him.

"Was that a forged absence note you gave the guard?"

Gilbert turned the radio up a little higher. "Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies," he replied, leaning back onto the headrest.

Mattie turned to look out of the window, watching identical houses rush by. The colours seemed brighter, somehow, the air cleaner. Perhaps skipping school wasn't such a bad idea after all.

"So, have you eaten lunch yet?"

Matthew shook his head. "No. That's why I was looking for you, to ask if you wanted to eat together."

"Well," Gilbert told him, "I do. Let's go get some fucking waffles!"

The Canadian boy sighed. "Gil," he said quietly, "I don't like waffles."

There was a long, tense silence. Gilbert stared at him, his mouth hanging open in shock. "You- you don't like waffles?" he repeated.

"No," Mattie admitted, "I think they're too sweet, and have a funny texture."

Gilbert pouted, ignoring the road to gaze at his boyfriend. Mattie watched the loose grip the albino had on the wheel, and felt his heart begin to pound.

"But- but waffles are delicious," Gilbert lamented.

"I just don't feel that way," Mattie whispered, trying to ignore the lump in his throat.

After a few tense minutes, Gilbert shrugged.

"Ah well. I'm pretty sure they do pancakes there, anyway."

* * *

'There' turned out to be a tiny diner off the freeway, hidden behind a row of pine trees. It was a family run place, complete with greasy tabletops, cheery slogans pinned to the walls, and the obligatory smell of bacon. Gilbert reclined in one of the orange plastic seats, rubbing his head.

"So what do you think?" he said, grinning, "Awesome, isn't it?"

Matthew looked around at the stained tabletop, the obese waitress, the puddles of unidentified liquid on the floor and the leaky ketchup dispenser that was currently dripping red sauce onto his hand.

Then he looked at Gilbert, whose smile was so huge that it showed all of his white teeth, and whose hair glinted silver in the sunlight.

"Yeah," he said softly, "Awesome."

* * *

After they had both eaten so much heavy, greasy diner food that their stomachs felt like they'd expanded by at least a few inches, Gilbert led the way back to the car.

"The next stop on our magical mystery tour," he announced, as he clambered into the driver's seat, "Is Poland!"

"Poland?" Matthew replied, torn between bewilderment and exasperation.

"Poland?" Gilbert squinted at him, "What are you talking about? That's ridiculous. We can't drive to Poland from here, Mattie, there's a great big fucking ocean in the way. Nah, we're going to the forest."

"The forest behind your house?"

"Yup."

"The one we used to play in when we were kids?"

"The very same, my little chum."

"You've never used that word before, have you…"

"Not once."

They drove off. Mattie clung to his seat with his fingers and watched the lights rush by at breakneck speed.

_I've almost got used to Gilbert's driving. _

Another car pulled out in front of them, and the albino swerved hugely to avoid a collision. He cackled wildly to himself, turning his head to peer at something on the back seat.

_If I die today, don't let Al have my comic books._

* * *

Gilbert seemed to be having a fit of mania when they eventually reached the forest that edged into his backyard. He leapt out of the car, leaving the door wide open, and rushed off towards the trees. He was babbling something about a mystery, but Mattie was too busy locking the vehicle and trying to catch up with him to understand much of it.

"…and it's going to be totally awesome!" Gil crowed as the Canadian finally got close enough to hear.

"What's going to be totally awesome?" he asked, slightly out of breath from his impromptu jog.

"Kesesesese!" Gilbert winked at him, veering off suddenly to the left. They weren't following any sort of path and Mattie was sure that despite his aura of confidence, there was no way that Gilbert could be anything except totally lost.

"I can't tell you that, Birdie!" he chuckled, "Then it wouldn't be a surprise!"

They carried on for what seemed like hours but was probably only minutes, stumbling over endless rotting logs and trotting under the canopy of thousands of trees. The sun leaked through the leaves above, casting dappled shadows on the forest floor.

Matthew cast his mind back to those long days playing here as a child. This place was full of adventure, then, stuffed with excitement and opportunity and hidden, impossible magic. Each tree seemed like a climbing frame, every puddle a paddling pool.

It was a world away from the still, silent forest they were currently hurrying through. The beauty, however, remained.

Suddenly, Gilbert stumbled to a halt, and turned to look at Mattie with shining eyes.

"Here it is," he whispered, and edged forward through a row of thick trees. Behind them was a clearing, in the middle of which was a fairly large lake. The water was a sparkling, shimmering shade of turquoise, so clear that Matthew could almost make out the bottom.

"I found this place a couple of years ago," Gil said proudly, "Not many people know it exists, because it's so far into the forest and everything."

_They say that he's callous, you know. They think he's insensitive. _

Matthew shuffled closer to his boyfriend, reaching down to squeeze his hand.

"It's amazing," he said honestly.

Gilbert looked at him, suddenly sly, then pulled away and unzipped his jacket. Matthew watched as he threw the garment onto the floor and then yanked off his T-shirt, wondering if he'd been using the right word that morning after all.

"What are you doing?" he asked, almost afraid of the answer.

Gilbert gave him a grin that was 40% sweet and 60% pure evil. "Swimming, duh!"

"But-" Mattie had seen Gilbert's chest before, but it was a good few years ago, and the albino seemed to have changed rather a lot since then. He wasn't muscular, but he was lean rather than scrawny now. Matthew found it oddly difficult to look away, especially when the albino started pulling off his jeans, "-you don't have a bathing suit!"

"Never heard of skinny-dipping?" Gilbert said in a low voice. Matthew's eyes bugged, his cheeks burning. A moment later, Gil's familiar laugh shattered the quiet of the clearing. "I'm kidding, Matt. Just wear your boxers."

Matthew stood as still as a lump of rock whilst Gil dumped the last of his clothing on the ground and stood proudly before him, wearing nothing but a rather worn pair of red boxer shorts.

_Well, shit._

"Last one in the water's a stinky egg fart!" Gil yelled, before rushing down to the lake and wading in. He swore almost immediately, rubbing his thin arms.

"Shit, it's cold," he mumbled, which (not surprisingly) did nothing to convince Matt that joining him was a good idea.

"I- I don't have another pair of underwear," the Canadian told him, "How will I get home?"

"No need to," Gilbert replied instantly, "You can come back to my house."

_You've planned this, you sneaky bastard. _

Gilbert gave Matt one last grin before ducking under the water, re-emerging a moment later screeching and laughing.

"Come on, Matt! It's not that bad once you get used to it."

_Oh, fuck it. You only live once, eh?_

Matthew stripped off as quickly as possible, leaving his clothes in an untidy heap next to Gilbert's, then rushed down to the lakeside and (after taking a deep breath) ploughed in.

Gilbert whooped triumphantly.

_It's cold. Very, very cold. Cold as… a cold thing being cold. Coldly. _

The albino disappeared beneath the surface, and a second later something cold and slimy wrapped itself around Mattie's ankle.

(There were no witnesses to testify, but I'm sure his scream was very manly.)

He reached down and tugged Gilbert up, ignoring his spluttering giggles. The albino twisted out of his grip, splashing away like some kind of hopelessly inefficient water-based felon.

"Oh, it is on." Mattie said firmly, and dived after him.

* * *

When they finally emerged almost an hour later, freezing cold and drenched and laughing, Mattie saw that his cell phone was flashing. He wiped his hand dry on his trousers and pressed the answer-phone button, wondering who would have called him in the middle of the day.

"Matt, it's Al here."

_Of course it is. _

"Uh, I tried to call you, but you weren't picking up, so… anyway, you know the whole Iggy thing? I've sorted it. I've got this plan, it's going to be brilliant… Um, call me when you get this."

"What is it?" Gil asked, running a hand over his wet hair as Mattie frowned at the phone.

"I'm not sure," the Canadian replied after a moment, "But I have a feeling it's not going to go well."

**So, what is this plan that Alfred speaks of? If you can guess correctly, I'll give you my eternal respect. And if we ever meet up in real life, you can have a fiver, too. **

**Thanks for reading, and reviews are awesome. **


	12. Of confessions and crises

**AN: I know that this has taken me a horribly long time to update, and all I can do is apologise. I've been busy (although that's really no excuse) and most of this chapter was written on a high-octane combination of chocolate flavoured soya milk and insomnia. Apologies for any errors, and I hope you enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia: Axis Powers, or MacDonalds, or 'Truly Madly Deeply'. All credit goes to the owners. **

Alfred felt good.

In fact, fuck that shit. Alfred felt fantastic. And for once, it had nothing to do with a two-for-one offer on hamburgers or accidentally being given a free milkshake by an inattentive worker at MacDonald's. He'd been lying in bed when the idea came to him, thinking about the curve of Iggy's neck and the brightness of his eyes and how that slimy French creep probably had his hands all over him.

It wasn't fair. He should be the one kissing those lips that looked unbearably soft (although he'd never actually touched them) and holding his wrist and running his fingers over his too-prominent hipbones. He wanted him so much that it hurt, a physical ache in the back of his head that not even ice cream and sci-fi movies could chase away.

All this fruitless longing was having a horrible effect on his health. He wasn't sleeping well, his concentration in lessons was even worse than normal, his emotional state seemed to be completely beyond his control and although he hadn't lost weight, he felt like he should have.

_Maybe I did lose weight, because of all the trauma, but then I turned to comfort eating and put it back on_, he mused, staring up at the crack in his ceiling.

To put it plainly, Alfred was moping like a Beatnik who's just been told that it's 2012, and that black-and-sandals combo never really hit it off.

Then it came to him. Perhaps it was fate, or the work of some unknown deity, or (as Matthew later speculated) dehydration, but there it was, the plan engraved into his mind as if it had been there all along.

It had taken a couple of days and a decent amount of cash to get everything sorted, but it was finally in place. All he had to do now was become his own catalyst.

Courage had never really been a problem for him. Even as a little kid, he'd always been the first one to dive off the cliffs and talk to the strangers and touch the animals. His parents hadn't been too happy about it, as they were usually the ones who had to extract him from the sticky situations that he blundered into without a second thought, but as he got older they became proud of his self-confidence.

If this were a different time, a different place, and he were a knight upon a noble steed, he would be the bravest, the most valiant, in all the land. The first to ride into battle, with his sword held high and his armour glinting in the sun.

(He'd also be the first to be killed horribly, but people tend to overlook that detail until there's a body on the floor)

* * *

Mathew was late. Not the 'people begin to suspect that you've died' kind of late, but still much later than was comfortable. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, fidgeting, as Gilbert loped about making milkshakes and scratching at the walls and doing other things that seemed to have no purpose other than to waste time.

"Come on, Gil," he called out, for the fifteenth time that morning. The reply, when it came, was so muffled that he had to strain to make out the words.

"I'm in the bathroom."

Matthew sighed to himself. Earlier, when Ludwig had offered him a lift to school, he'd thought that it was unnecessary and a little strange, considering he was Gilbert's boyfriend and had spent the night in Gilbert's room.

(Oh, calm down. They didn't even sleep in the same bed- Matthew was relegated to an air mattress on the floor. Besides, he doubted he'd ever be able to get an erection whilst in the same house as Mr Beillschmidt. That man was _terrifying_.)

Anyway, he was beginning to regret rejecting Ludwig's offer. He looked at his watch again. 8:23.

"Gilbert!" he tried again, a little desperate now, "School starts in seven minutes. We're never going to get there on time."

"So why try?" Gilbert replied, appearing at the top of the stairs with a shit-eating grin on his face and his T-shirt on backwards.

Matthew rolled his eyes and stepped back to let the albino past. "What were you doing up there?" he asked.

Gilbert turned to smirk at him. "I put all the conditioner in the shampoo bottles, and all the shampoo in the conditioner bottles."

He looked so proud of himself that Matthew almost forgot how ridiculous that was. Almost being the operative word.

"Sometimes I feel more like a babysitter than a boyfriend," he muttered to himself, shaking his head. When, a few minutes later, he had to help Gilbert put his shirt on correctly, the feeling intensified by about two hundred percent.

"Can we go now?" he begged, shifting his rucksack on his shoulder.

"I still have one thing left to do," Gil said, and Matthew resisted the urge to growl.

"What is it?" he demanded through clenched teeth. He wasn't usually this irritable, but punctuality was something he'd always tried to maintain. The number of times he was late per week seemed to be directly proportionate to the amount of time he spent with Gilbert.

"This." Gil leant forward, taking Matthew's chin in his hands, and pressed their mouths together. It was short and light and tender, the gentlest kiss that the Canadian had ever known.

He drew back, smiling although his eyes were dark, and Matthew touched his lips with a finger. Although out of all the times Gil had kissed him, that one felt like the least likely to leave his mouth bruised and swollen, he knew that he'd feel it there all day.

He swallowed, suddenly shy. "Oh."

Gilbert smirked, that same old smirk that he'd been doing since they were both about five- but it was different now, because when they were five the way that Gil quirked the corners of his mouth had never made heat rush to the bottom of Matthew's stomach.

"Yeah," the albino said, his tone light and teasing, "Oh."

He turned away towards the door, suddenly ready to leave, and it took Matthew a couple of seconds before he could follow.

* * *

The lunchroom was busy when Alfred strode in – which, he told himself firmly, was a good thing.

_There's no point in doing this if no one's going to see it, right?_

He scanned the area quickly, blue eyes roving over scores of students until they came to rest on a very familiar blonde head. Arthur was bent over a book (as usual), a flask resting on the table beside him. Alfred couldn't help but smile at that. The English boy could never last the eight hours at school without his precious tea. Arthur wasn't alone; there was a guy with choppy blonde hair who Al vaguely recognised from his chemistry class sitting opposite him, although they weren't talking.

He took a breath, trying to calm himself. It was strange, the way his heart was beating out a quick, nervous rhythm in his chest. He was usually composed, daring, and this newfound anxiety unsettled him a little.

Still. No time like the present, huh? He shot a grin at Arthur, who failed to notice him, and sauntered as casually as he could over to the sound system. Roger, the student technician who took care of this stuff, was waiting there (as they had planned) although he looked kind of jumpy himself.

"You alright?" Al asked as he got within hearing range.

Roger nodded, glancing about. "If the IT support guys find out I'm accepting bribes I'll be fucked."

Al forced out an unnatural-sounding laugh. "Who knew the world of tech support was so much like the police force."

Roger's expression was torn between bemusement and exasperation, and entirely without humour.

"Whatever, man. Just get it over with, and if anyone asks… say you hacked the system, or something. I don't want this to go on my record."

He pushed a few buttons, gave Al one last shift nod and slunk away. Almost immediately the sound system kicked into action, pumping out gentle, pop beats that made almost every student in the room look around in confusion.

Alfred swallowed back the sudden lump in his throat, and clambered rather awkwardly onto the nearest table (cleared for the occasion, although it took another five bucks before Roger would agree to do it). He turns, almost losing his footing, until he's staring straight at Arthur. The British boy is looking back at him, too, his mouth slightly agape. He looks extremely confused, and more than a little horrified.

_Fuck. I can't pull out now. _

The soft guitar that Al recognised as his cue leaked out of the speakers, and he stumbled slightly over the words as he sand them out to the room at large. Well, not all of the room, actually. To one person in particular.

"I'll be your dream, I'll be your wish, I'll be your fantasy…" Alfred winced. His voice had sounded much better when he'd practiced this in his room. Then, it felt like he was singing. Now, he was painfully aware that it was more like shouting. Still, he blundered on.

"I'll be your hope, I'll be your love, be everything that you need…" His voice cracked on the last word, and he cleared his throat gruffly. People had begun to snicker, their eyes less amused and more judgemental with every syllable that flopped out of his mouth.

He looked desperately at Arthur.

It was a mistake; the blonde teenager was glaring at him by now, his cheeks as red as strawberries- and even in his current state, Alfred couldn't help but find that cute.

The music was still blaring out, but he'd missed his next cue. He tried to recover, realised that he'd forgotten the lyrics, and coughed.

Suddenly, the noise stopped entirely. Al turned his head to see what had happened, fully expecting to be greeted by an irate Roger – and found himself staring straight into cold blue eyes.

"Vous petite merde," Francis hissed out. Alfred had no idea what the words meant, but they didn't sound good.

"This is nothing to do with you," the American boy snapped back. Francis took a step closer, tossing back his hair in a gesture that would have looked feminine if anyone else had performed it.

"You're yelling a terrible love song at _my_ boyfriend, so I think it does have something to do with me."

"He's not your boyfriend," Alfred shouted, horribly aware of how silent the entire room had fallen.

"Really?" Francis smirked, so confident and so smug and God Alfred could punch him right now, and cocked his head to the side. "Well, I consider anyone whose body I am on such… intime terms with more than just a friend."

Rage boiled up in his abdomen, and he stumbled down off the table because the difference in their height was starting to become ridiculous. He was still a couple of inches taller than the French boy, and that gave him a fleeting sense of superiority.

"I love him," he growled out, and it sounded just as low and dangerous as he felt.

"Mon dieu." He laughed, he fucking laughed, and it sent daggers through Alfred's stomach. "You really are pathetic, aren't you?"

Alfred doesn't think it through. It's not a carefully constructed plan. He doesn't even realise what he's doing until his hand is embedded in Francis' hair, and he's dragging him over to the nearest table and pushing his face into some girl's plate of spaghetti.

Francis pulled back, spluttering and furious, and Alfred was so surprised that he let go of his head. The French boy wiped pasta sauce out of his eye, muttered something vicious too quietly for Alfred to hear properly, and grabbed a cup of orange juice from somewhere to his left in a sharp, whirling movement.

Alfred stared at the drink for a moment, completely aware of what was about to happen and yet unable to do anything to stop it.

Sure enough, a couple of seconds later there was orange juice soaking through the front of his blue T-shirt, and Francis was hissing with laughter.

What happened next really wasn't Alfred's fault. The boy sitting next to the girl whose dinner he'd ruined literally pushed his chocolate pudding into the American teenager's hand, and after that it would have been almost rude not to throw it at Francis' crotch.

Francis stopped laughing abruptly, yelling something that even Alfred recognised as a pretty nasty swear word, and a second later there were frogs legs being pelted at his face.

(When he looked back on the whole disastrous ordeal, later, it was this that made Alfred frown. After all, they didn't sell frogs legs in their school cafeteria, and not even Francis would just carry them round in his pockets in case of emergencies… would he?)

Alfred reached for the water jug sitting on the table to his right, fully intending to give Francis what he deserved.

"Stop! Both of you, just bloody stop!"

He froze, his expression melting into something that looked a lot like guilt as he slowly turned around to face Arthur. The British boy was standing with his hands on his hips, his face absolutely murderous. Alfred risked a glance at Francis, who at least had the decency to look ashamed.

"This whole thing is ridiculous." Arthur exhaled angrily, and angled his body towards Francis. "You. We're not dating, alright? We never were, and we never will be. So leave me alone."

A little voice inside Alfred's head cheered, but it died when Arthur's green eyes landed on him.

"And as for you… you just humiliated me in front of the majority of the student body. If you thought that screeching some bloody awful nineties' pop song at me would win me over, you clearly don't know me at all."

He sighed, shaking his head, and seemed to deflate a little.

_Arthur… please don't hate me. I'll do anything, just- please._

"I am sick and tired of both of you idiots. I don't know where you got the stupid notion that you needed to fight over me, but let me tell you right now that it isn't going to work. This is immature, and embarrassing, and honestly sort of creepy."

He looked between them, folding his arms across his chest.

"I don't want to go out with either of you."

With that he stormed out of the lunchroom, his flask tucked under one arm and his book held firmly in the other hand.

Alfred sank down to the floor. He'd never really understood it before, when people called themselves deflated. Now, though… well, let's just say he'd gained a bit of empathy, that lunchtime.

Francis was leaning against the wall, his eyes closed. For once, he didn't look arrogant or cocky.

Someone cleared their throat, and the blonde guy who had been sitting on Arthur's table pushed himself to his feet. He had funny eyes- sort of a turquoise colour. They were narrowed, and not at all friendly.

"You are going to clean up the mess you have made," the guy barked out, "And you are going to do it now. The cleaning ladies do not deserve to deal with your combined shit. DO I MAKE MYSELF PERFECTLY CLEAR?"

Holy fuck, he was scary.

Alfred nodded, feeling himself flush, and out of the corner of his eye saw Francis give a carefully-nonchalant shrug. The blonde guy's mouth twisted into an even fiercer scowl.

"Get. Moving."

* * *

Matthew had a free period after lunch, and even though he remembered Gilbert once telling him that it was 'totally awesome how their free lessons matched up', he can't find him anywhere. After fifteen minutes or so of searching he headed to the library, figuring that if he couldn't see his boyfriend he might as well get some revision done. He selected a few textbooks that looked like they might be helpful, and shuffled off towards the back, where it was quieter.

To his surprise, there was a familiar figure slumped over a desk near the Ancient History section, his face pressed into the wood. Matthew shuffled awkwardly and shifted his weight from one leg to the other, wondering what was going on.

"Er, Arthur? Arthur, that's you, right?"

There was a mumbling noise of assent, and Matthew slipped into a chair opposite the British boy. He opened one of the textbooks, but kept glancing over anxiously at Arthur's collapsed form.

A few minutes later, Arthur lifted his head off the desk. His face was slightly red, his expression weary.

"Your brother's a wanker," he said shortly.

Matthew closed the textbook.

"Yeah…I know."

There was a long, unforgiving pause.

"What did he do this time?"

Arthur groaned and rested his chin on the table again.

"He- he bloody sang to me. In front of the whole lunchroom. That's- I mean, that's not a normal thing to do. Where I come from, people don't do things like that."

Suddenly, the weird answer phone message from yesterday makes a lot more sense. Matthew cringes, and thanks some unknown deity that he decided to eat lunch outside that day.

"Alfred's a little more…extroverted than most people."

Arthur made a growling sort of noise. "Yes. I'm fucking aware of that."

He was clearly not in the best of moods (and really, was it any wonder?) so Matthew went back to his reading for a little while. Maybe ten minutes later, Arthur shifted himself into a more upright position.

"What about you? How's your romantic-" he made a waving gesture with his hand "-going?"

Matthew felt the blood rush to his cheeks. "It's- it's good. We're… we're going out."

"Really." Arthur didn't sound the least bit surprised. "Where is he now, then?"

Matthew licked his lips nervously. "Er- I don't actually know." He turned a page, although he hadn't looked at the previous one. "He's around somewhere." The words sounded vague and uncertain, even to him.

"Hmm." Arthur was clearly unimpressed, and it gave Matthew a funny nauseous feeling.

"Let me ask you this," the British boy continued, after a couple of seconds, "How much time do you actually spend together? How much of his attention do you actually receive?"

Matthew closed the book, eyes flashing.

"That's- I have to go. I have…I should practice. Hockey."

Arthur let his face sink back to hit the desk.

"Do me a favour. When you're hitting that puck… pretend it's your brother's head."

**So, how was it? Awful? Brilliant? Somewhere in between? Send a review, and let me know. Also, can you guess who made the cameo as 'angry guy sitting at Arthur's table'?**

**And I swear that the next chapter will have more PruCan, and less meandering side-plot.**


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